For an hour or more he continued his quest, but without noting anything of interest. And then, in not too good a humour, he returned to the aerodrome. Colonel Raymond was talking to Major Mullen when he landed.
`Well, Sherlock,' called the Colonel, 'what's the latest?'
`Nothing doing, sir,' replied Biggles shortly. 'But I haven't given up hope. I hope to pass the time of day with that Rumpler pilot tomorrow, anyway!'
The following morning he was in the air in ample time to intercept the Boche machine. In fact, he had deliberately allowed himself a wide margin of time in order to make a further survey of the ground which appeared to be the object of the enemy plane's daily visit, and towards which he now headed. Reaching it, he gave a grunt of annoyance as his probing eyes searched the earth below. Everything was just the same—the same lonely farm-labourer was still harvesting his corn.
Flying lower, he saw, farther on, a large body of British troops—a brigade, he judged it to be—lying fairly well concealed along the edge of a wood, no doubt awaiting their turn to move up to the trenches. He wondered vaguely whether the prying eyes in the Rumpler would see them, but he decided not, both from the fact that the machine would be too high up and would hardly be likely to venture so far over the British Line. He glanced at the watch on his instrument-board and saw that he still had a quarter of an hour to wait for the Rumpler, assuming it came at the same time as before.
`Well, I might as well be getting plenty of height,' he mused, as he tilted the nose of the Camel upwards, glancing down for a final survey of the ground as he did so. His eye fell on the labourer, still working at his harvest. It seemed to Biggles that he was working unnecessarily fast, and a frown lined his brow as he looked around the sky to see if there were any signs of an impending storm to account for the man's
haste. But the sky was an unbroken blue canopy from horizon to horizon. He looked back at the man on the ground, and, leaning over the side of the cockpit to see better, he stared at the field and the position of the shocks of corn with a puzzled expression on his lace. It struck him that, in spite of the man's haste in moving the corn, the shocks were as numerous as they had been the previous (lay. They only seemed to have moved their positions, and they now formed a curious pattern, quite different from the usual orderly rows.
'So that's your game, is it?' Biggles muttered, after a quick intake of breath, as he realised the significance of what he saw.
II is eyes followed a long line of sheaves pointing in the direction of the concealed infantry, and a number of isolated shucks which probably indicated the distance they were away, and so disclosed their position to the German aerial observer!
Biggles' brain raced swiftly. What should he do? There were several courses open to him. He might proceed with his original plan and shoot down the Rumpler. That would at least prevent the information from reaching the German gunners.
But suppose he failed? Suppose the Boche shot him down? He did not anticipate such a catastrophe, nor did he think it likely, but it was a possibility. His engine might be damaged, when he would be forced to land, in which case there was nothing to prevent the Rumpler from reaching home. He might have engine trouble and have to force-land, anyway, and he shuddered to think of the consequences, for he had not the slightest doubt but that the British infantry would be annihilated by the guns of the German artillery.
Another plan would be to return to the aerodrome, ring up Colonel Raymond, at Wing Headquarters, and tell him what he had discovered. The Colonel could then send a message to the brigade warning them to shift their position before the bombardment started.
`No,' he decided: 'that won't do.' It would take too long. It would allow the Boche plane ample time to return home and start the enemy gunners on their deadly work before the message could reach the brigade. The only really sure plan seemed to be to land and destroy the tell-tale signal before the Boche plane came over. If he could do that quickly he might still have time to get off again and get the Rumpler when it arrived.
`Yes,' he thought; 'that's the safest way!' There was still ten minutes to go before the Rumpler was due to appear on the scene.
Having made up his mind, he sideslipped steeply towards the ground near to where the supposed peasant was at work. The fact that he was unarmed did not worry him. After all, there was no reason to suppose that the spy would suspect he had been discovered—
his method of conveying information to the enemy was so simple and so natural that nothing but a fluke or uncanny perception could detect it. It was improbable that a roving scout pilot would even pass over the field so far behind the Lines, much less suspect the sinister scheme. But the improbable had happened, and Biggles, as he swooped earthwards, could not help admiring the ingenuity of the plan. He did not risk a landing on the stubble of the cornfield, but dropped lightly to earth on a pasture a short distance away. Climbing from the cockpit, he threw his heavy flying-coat across the lower wing and started off at a steady trot towards the cornfield. As he neared it he slowed down to a walk in order not to alarm the spy, and made for a gate leading into the field. He saw the supposed labourer, dressed in the typical blue garb of a French peasant, still carrying the sheaves of corn, and he smiled grimly at his thoroughness. For the labourer did not so much as glance up when a distant deep-toned hum announced the approach of his confederate, the Rumpler.
He saw Biggles coming towards him and waved gaily. `Bonjour, m' sieur le capitan!' he cried, smiling, and the pilot was too far away to see the curious gleam in his eyes.
`Bonjour, m'sieur!' echoed Biggles, still advancing.
He was still about twenty yards away when he saw the peasant's hand move quickly to his pocket, and then up. Before he even suspected the other's purpose, a deafening roar filled Biggles' ears, and the world seemed to blow up in a sheet of crimson and orange flame that slowly turned to purple and then to black.
As he pitched forward limply on his face, Biggles knew that the spy had shot him!
Biggles' first conscious realisation as he opened his eyes was a shocking headache. He tried to raise his arm to his head to feel the ex tent of the damage done by the spy's bullet, but his arm seemed to be pinned to his side. It was dark, too, and an overwhelming smell of fresh straw filled his nostrils, seeming to suffocate him. He saw some narrow strips of daylight in the darkness, and it took him several minutes of concentrated thought to realise that he was buried under a pile of corn-sheaves. With a mighty effort that seemed to burst his aching head, he flung the sheaves aside and rolled out into the open, blinking like an owl in the dazzling sunlight. He struggled to his feet, and, swaying dizzily, looked about him. Apparently he was at the very spot where he had fallen; everything was precisely the same except that the spy had just flung the sheaves of corn over the pilot's unconscious body to conceal it from any casual passersby, and then had made his escape.
Biggles wondered how long he had been unconscious, for he had no means of knowing; his watch was on the instrument-board of the Camel. From the position of the sun, however, he decided that it could not have been very long, but ample for the Rumpler pilot to read the message and return. At least, the machine was nowhere in sight, and he could not hear the sound of its engine. He tried to think, raising his hand to his aching head and looking aghast at his red-stained fingers when he took it away. Suddenly he remembered the infantry, and with a shock he recalled the perilous position in which they must now be placed. He must get in touch with the brigade, was the thought that
hammered through his brain. The inevitable artillery bombardment had not yet started, and he might still be in time to save them!
The sudden splutter of a motor-car engine made him swing round, and he was just in time to see a rather dilapidated old Renault car, with the spy at the wheel, disappearing out of the yard of the small farmhouse a short distance away, to which the cornfield evidently belonged. At the same time a thick column of smoke began to rise from the farm itself, and he guessed that the spy had set fire to
the place to destroy any incriminating documents or clues he might have left behind in his hurried departure. Biggles' lips set in a straight line, and his eyes narrowed.
`You aren't getting away with that!' he snarled, and started off at a swaying run towards the place where he had left his Camel, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw it was still there.
He paused for an instant at a ditch to soak his handkerchief and bind it round the place on the side of his head where the spy's bullet had grazed it. Ìf I ever get a closer one than that it will be the last!' he muttered grimly, as he realized what a close shave he had had. Indeed, the spy must have thought he had killed him, he reflected, or he would not have left him to tell the tale. He climbed into the cockpit, and, after a swerving run, somehow managed to get the machine off the ground and headed towards the road down which the spy had disappeared. He saw the car presently, and the long cloud of dust hanging in the air behind it, and he flung the Camel at it viciously, knowing that he had no time to lose. He knew he ought to go straight to the infantry brigade and sound the warning, but his blood was up and he could not bear to think the spy might escape to continue his dangerous work elsewhere. In any case, he thought, as he tore down the road just above the column of dust, the Rumpler pilot could scarcely have reached home yet, for the fact that he—
Biggles—had caught the spy in the act of escaping indicated that he had not been unconscious for more than a few minutes. His lips parted in a mirthless smile as he saw the
fugitive look back over his shoulder at the pursuing demon on his ail, and the car leaped forward as the spy strove to escape by increasing his speed. Biggles laughed. The idea of any vehicle on the ground leaving his Camel, which was doing 14o miles an hour, struck him as funny. But the smile gave way to the cold calculating stare. of the fighting airman as the Camel drew swiftly into range, and Biggles' eyes sought his sights.
Rati-tat-tat-tat-tat! The twin Vickers guns began their song. The end came suddenly. Whether he hit the driver, or burst a lyre, or whether it was simply the result of the driver trying to take a bend at excessive speed, Biggles did not know, nor did he stop to ascertain. The car seemed suddenly to plough into the road, and a great cloud of dust arose above it. The bodywork, with a deliberation that was appalling to watch, seemed slowly to spread itself over the landscape. A solitary wheel went bounding along the road. A tongue of flame licked out of the engine, and in a moment all that was left of the wreck was concealed under a cloud of smoke.
Biggles grimaced at the unpleasant sight, and circled twice to see if by some miracle the driver was still alive. But there was a Significant lack of movement near the car, and he shot off at a
tangent in the direction of the infantry encampment.
lie had made a bad landing, excusable in the circumstances, in an adjacent field, and ran quickly towards a group of officers whom he saw watching him.
I must speak to the Brigadier at once!' he cried, as he reached them.
`Did no one teach you how to salute?' thundered an officer who wore a major's crown on his sleeve.
Biggles flushed, and raised his hand smartly to the salute, inwardly fuming at the delay. Ì must speak to the Brigadier or the Brigade-major at once!' he repeated impatiently. A major, wearing on his collar the red tabs of a staff-officer, hurried up and asked: 'Are you the officer who just flew low over
`Do you mind leaving that until later, sir?' ground out Biggles. Ì've come to tell you to move your men at once. I
`Silence! Are you giving me orders?' cried the Brigade-major incredulously. 'I'll report you for impertinence!'
Biggles groaned, then had an inspiration.
`May I use your telephone, sir? It's very urgent!' he asked humbly.
`You'll find one at Headquarters—this way!'
In the Brigade Headquarters, Biggles grabbed the telephone feverishly. The Brigademajor and an orderly-officer watched him curiously. In a few moments he was speaking to Colonel Raymond at Wing Headquarters.
`Bigglesworth here, sir!' he said tersely. 'I've found what you were looking for. That Boche came over to pick up a message from a spy who has signalled to the German gunners the position of the brigade from whose headquarters I am now speaking—yes, sir—that's right—by the side of the wood about two miles east of Buell. Yes, I've tried to tell the people here, but they won't listen. I killed the spy—he's lying under the wreckage of his own car on the Amiens road. Yes, sir—I should say the bombardment is due to start any minute.'
`What's that--what's that?' cried a voice behind him. Biggles glanced over his shoulder and saw the Brigadier watching him closely.
`Just a moment, sir,' he called into the telephone, and then, to the Brigadier: 'Will you speak to Colonel Raymond, of 51st Wing Headquarters, sir?'
The Brigadier took the instrument and placed the receiver to his ear. Biggles saw his face turn pale. An instant later he had slammed down the receiver and ripped out a string of orders. Orderlies dashed off in all directions, bugles sounded, and sergeant-majors shouted.
Ten minutes later, as the tail of the column disappeared
behind a fold in the ground to the rear, the first shell arrived. A salvo followed. Presently the earth where the British camp had been was being torn and ploughed by flame and hurtling metal. Biggles ran through the inferno offlying earth and shrapnel to where he had left the Camel. The pain in his head, forgotten in the excitement, had now returned with greater intensity, and as hr ran he shut his eyes tightly, fighting back the wave of dizziness which threatened him.
'I must have been barmy to leave the bus as close as this,' he thought. 'She's probably been blown sky-high by this time.'
There was reason for his concern, for the enemy shells were falling uncomfortably near the field where he had left the machine. But the Camel was intact when he reached it, although the ploughed-up ground which he had looked upon as a possible take-off showed how narrowly some of the shells had missed it.
Biggles scrambled into the cockpit and revved up the engine, hen kicked hard at the rudder-bar to avoid the edge of a shell-hole as the machine lurched forward. Bumping and swaying on the torn ground, the Camel gathered speed.
'I'll have the undercarriage collapsing if I can't get off soon,' Biggles muttered, and eased back the joystick.
For a few moments the wheels jolted on the rough earth, then a bump bigger than usual threw them into the air.
As he landed , at Maranique, Wat Tyler, the Recording Officer, handed him a signal.
'From Wing,' he said. 'What have you been up to now?'
Biggles tore the envelope open and smiled as he read: 'Good work, Sherlock!' The initials below were Colonel Raymond's. CRUISING over the Somme, France, at fifteen thousand feet, Biggles paused for a moment in his unceasing scrutiny of the sky to glance downwards. The smoke from a burning farmhouse caught his eye, and a little frown of anxiety lined his forehead as he noticed that the smoke was rolling along the ground towards Germany at an angle which could only mean that a very high wind was blowing.
He swung his Camel round in its own length, the frown deepening with anxiety as he realised for the first time that he was a good deal farther over the Lines than he imagined. Ìt'll take me half an hour to get back against this wind. I must have been crazy to come so far over,' he thought, as he pushed his joystick forward for more speed. The archie bursts that had followed him on his outward passage with indifferent results now began to creep closer as the Camel offered a less fleeting target. The pilot was forced to change direction in order to avoid their unwelcome attentions. Ì must have been crazy,' he told himself again angrily, as he swerved to avoid a cluster of ominous black bubbles that had appeared like magic in front of him. 'I ought to have spotted that the wind had got up. But how was I to know it was going to blow a gale?'
Under the forward pressure on the joystick, his height had dropped to ten thousand feet by the time the white scars of the shell-torn trenches came into view. Suddenly he stiffened in his seat as a f
aint but unusual noise reached his ears. Underlying the rhythmic hum of his Bentley engine was a persistent tick-a-tacktick-a-tack . With a grim suspicion forming in his mind, he glanced back over his shoulder. Along his line of flight, stretching away behind him like the wake of a ship, was a cloud of paleblue smoke, and he knew beyond doubt that his engine was giving trouble. He turned quickly to his instrument-board and confirmed it. The engine revolution counter had fallen to nearly half its normal revs. He looked over the side, now thoroughly alarmed, to judge his distance from the Lines. He decided, with a sigh of relief, that he mightjust reach them provided the trouble did not become worse. But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for hardly had the thought crossed his mind than there was a loud explosion, a streamer of flame leapt backwards from the whirling rotary engine, and a smell of burning oil filled his nostrils. Instantly he throttled back, preferring to land behind the German Lines rather than be burnt to a cinder in the air. I le lost height rapidly, and fixed his eyes on the Lines in an agony of suspense. Fortunately, the sky was clear of enemy machines, a fact which afforded him some consolation, for he Would have been in a hopeless position had he been attacked. Still gliding, he moistened his lips, and tried opening the t hint t le a trifle. But the flames reappeared at once, and he had no alternative but to resume his former gliding angle. Lines were not much more than a mile away now, but his height was less than a thousand feet, a fact that was unpleasantly impressed upon him by the closeness of the anti-aircraft gun-fire. An ominous crackling, too, warned him that the enemy machine-gunners on the ground were also making good shooting at the struggling machine. To make matters worse, there seemed to be a battle raging below. Clouds of smoke, stabbing spurts of flame, and leaping geysers of mud told a story of concentrated bombardment on both sides of the Lines. More than once the Camel rocked violently as abig projectile from the thundering howitzers hurtled by.
Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter (51) Page 7
