by W E Johns
As Biggles realised this, the germ of an idea crept into his mind, but it was so fantastic that he dismissed it. Yet in spite of his efforts, the thought persisted. If the balloon were free—as it would be if the crew released their hold on it—it would inevitably be blown over the British Lines, and, naturally, anyone in the basket would go with it.
He did not stop to ponder what would happen when it got there; sufficient for him in his present predicament to know that if in some way he could get into the basket and compel the crew to release their hold on the balloon, he would soon be over friendly country, instead of remaining in Germany with the prospect of staying there for the duration of the War.
Reluctantly he was compelled to dismiss the idea, for to attack the whole balloon section single-handed and unarmed was a proposition that could not be considered seriously. So from his place of concealment he watched the scene for a few minutes despondently; and he was about to turn away to resume his march when a new factor introduced itself and made him catch his breath in excitement.
The first indication of it was the distant but rapidly approaching roar of an aero engine. The balloon crew heard it, too, and evidently guessed, as well as Biggles, just what it portended, for there was a general stir as the men craned their necks to see the approaching machine and tried to drag their charge towards the coppice.
The stir became more pronounced as Mahoney’s Camel leapt into view over the trees and swooped down upon the balloon in its lair.
“He’s peeved because he thinks I’ve gone West, so he’s ready to shoot up anyone and anything,” was the thought that flashed into Biggles’ brain.
The chatter of the twin Vickers guns broke into his thoughts, and he watched the scene spellbound, for the stir now became panic. Two or three of the crew had fallen under the hail of lead, while several more were in open flight, leaving the balloon in the grip of the few more courageous ones, who shouted for help as they struggled to keep the now swaying gasbag on the ground.
Biggles could see what was about to happen, and was on his feet actually before the plan had been born in his brain, sprinting like a deer across the open towards his only hope of salvation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mahoney’s Camel twisting and turning as it ran for the Lines through a blaze of archie.
He heard a shout behind him, but he did not stop. As a drowning man clutches at a straw in the last frenzy of despair so he hurled himself at the basket of the balloon. As in a dream, he heard more shouts and running footsteps. Luckily, the nearest man had his back towards him, and Biggles flung him aside with a mighty thrust. He grabbed the rim of the basket, and lifting his feet, kicked the second man aside.
Just what happened after that would not be easy to describe. It was all confused. He saw the two remaining members of the crew start back, the balloon forgotten in their astonishment and fright, and the next moment he was jerked upwards with such force that he lost his grip with his right hand, and felt sure his left arm would be torn from its socket. But with the fear of death in his heart he clung on.
Somehow his right hand joined the left on the rim of the basket. His feet beat a wild tattoo on the wickerwork sides as they sought to find a foothold to take his weight, in order to relieve the strain on his arms and enable him to climb up to temporary safety.
His muscles grew numb with the strain, and just as he felt his strength leaving him his right knee struck something soft. In an instant his leg had curled round the object, and he made a last supreme effort. Inch by inch he lifted his body, which seemed to weigh a ton, until his chin was level with the rim of the basket; his foot swung up over the edge. For two seconds he lay balanced, then fell inwards gasping for breath and clutching at his hammering heart.
For perhaps a minute he could only lie and pant, perspiration pouring down his face, for the strain had been terrific. Then sheer will-power conquered, and, hauling himself up to the edge of the basket, he looked over the side, only to receive another shock that left him staring helplessly.
Just what he had expected to see he had not stopped to consider, but he certainly imagined that he would still be within reasonable distance of the ground. That the balloon, freed from its anchor, could shoot up to seven or eight thousand feet in two or three minutes was outside his knowledge of aeronautics. Yet such was the case.
So far below that he could no longer see the spot where he had left the ground, lay the earth, a vast indigo basin that merged into blue and purple shadows at the distant horizon. The deep rumble of the guns along the Line, like a peal of distant thunder, was the only sound that reached his ears. He was oppressed by a curious sense of loneliness, for there was nothing he could do except watch his slow progress towards the shell-torn strip of No Man’s Land between the opposing front-line trenches, now visible like a long, ugly scar across the western landscape; so he fell to examining his unusual aircraft.
Above loomed the gigantic body of the gasbag; around him hung a maze of ropes and lines. A small drawing board, with a map pinned on it, was fastened at an inclined angle to one side of the basket, and near it, hanging half over the rim, just as it had been casually thrown by its last wearer, was the complicated webbing harness of a parachute.
He followed the life line and saw that it was connected to a bulging case outside the basket, the same protuberance which had assisted him to climb up when he had been dangling in space.
The parachute interested him, for it represented a means of getting back to earth if all else failed. But he regarded the apparatus with grim suspicion. He had, of course, seen the device employed many times, both on the British and German side of the Lines, but it had been from a distance, and as a mildly interested spectator. It had never occurred to him that he might one day be called upon to use one.
He fitted the harness over his shoulders, and with some difficulty adjusted the thigh straps. Then he looked over the side again, and for the first time in his life really appreciated the effort of will required to jump into space from such a ghastly height.
A terrific explosion somewhere near at hand brought his heart into his mouth, and he stared upwards under the impression that the balloon had burst. To his infinite relief he saw that it was still intact, but a smudge of black smoke was drifting slowly past it. He recognised his old enemy, archie, and wondered why the burst made so much noise—until he remembered that he was accustomed to hearing it above the roar of an aero engine. In the deathly silence the sound was infinitely more disturbing.
Another shell, quickly followed by another, came up, and burst with explosions that made the basket quiver. The smoke being black indicated that the shells were being fired by German gunners, so he assumed that they had been made aware of what had occurred and were endeavouring to prevent him from reaching the British Lines.
At that moment a white archie burst flamed amongst the black ones, and he eyed it mournfully, realising that the British gunners had spotted the balloon as a German, and were making good practice on it. To be archied by the gunners of both sides was something that he had never supposed possible.
Slowly, but with horrible certainty, the shells crept nearer as the gunners corrected their aim, and more than once the shrill whe-e-e-e of flying shrapnel made him duck.
“This is no blinking joke,” he muttered savagely. “I shall soon have to be doing something. But what?”
He had a confused recollection that a balloon had some sort of device which allowed the gas to escape, with the result that it sank slowly earthward. But desperate though the circumstances were, he dared not pull any of the trailing cords, for he knew that there was yet another which ripped a panel out of the top, or side, of the fabric, and allowed the whole structure to fall like a stone.
He eyed the dark bulk above him sombrely. Somehow or other he must allow the gas to escape in order to lose altitude, and for a wild moment he thought of trying to climb up the guy ropes to the fabric and then cutting a hole in it with his penknife; but he shrank from the ordeal.
An extra close burst of archie made him stagger, and in something like panic he grabbed one of the ropes and pulled it gingerly. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, but still nothing happened.
“Why the dickens don’t they fix control-sticks to these kites?” he snarled, and was about to give the rope a harder pull when the roar of an aero engine accompanied by the staccato chatter of a machine-gun, struck his ears.
“It looks as if it’s me against the rest of the world!” he thought bitterly, as a Camel swept into view.
It banked steeply, a perfect evolution that in other circumstances would have been a joy to behold, and then tore back at him, guns spurting orange flame that glowed luridly in the half-light. It disappeared from view behind the bulk of the gasbag, and with a sinking feeling in his heart he knew that the end of his journey was at hand.
The chatter of the guns made him wince, and, leaning out of the basket, he saw a tiny tongue of flame lick up the side of the bellying fabric.
Now there are moments in dire peril when fear ceases to exist and one acts with deliberation that is the product of final despair. For Biggles this was one of them. All was lost, so nothing mattered.
“Well, here goes; I’m not going to be fried alive!” he said recklessly, and climbing up on to the edge of the basket, he dived outwards.
As he somersaulted slowly through space the scene around him seemed to take on the curious aspect of a slow motion film. He saw the balloon, far above, enveloped in a sheet of flame. The Camel was still banking, but so slowly, it seemed, that the thought flashed through his mind that it would stall and fall into flames.
Then the blazing mass above was blotted out by a curious grey cloud that seemed to mushroom out above him. He was conscious of a sudden jerk; the sensation of falling ceased, and he felt that he was floating in space on an invisible cushion of incredible softness,
“The parachute!” he gasped, suddenly understanding. “It’s opened!”
Then the Camel swept into sight again from beyond the parachute and dived towards him, the pilot waving a cheerful greeting.
Biggles stared at the markings on the fuselage. There was no mistaking them. It was Mahoney’s machine. He smiled as the humour of the situation struck him; and placing his thumb to his nose, he extended his fingers in the time-honoured manner.
Mahoney, who at that moment was turning away, changed his mind and flew closer, as if to confirm the incredible spectacle. But the swiftly-falling figure raced him to earth before he could come up with it again.
Biggles saw with a shock that he was now very close to the ground, and even while he was thinking of the best way to fall he struck it. The wind was knocked out of him, but he was past caring about such trifles.
Picking himself up quickly, he saw with relief that the fabric had become entangled in some bushes, which arrested its progress and thus prevented him from being dragged.
It was nearly dark, and strangely quiet, so he assumed that he must have fallen some distance behind the Lines, a state of affairs he was quickly able to confirm from a pedestrian whom he accosted on a road which he came upon after crossing two or three fields.
An hour later, the car he had hired at the nearest village pulled up at Maranique, and, after paying the driver, he walked briskly towards the mess. Noticing that a light was still shining in the Squadron Office, he glanced through the window as he passed, and saw Colonel Raymond in earnest consultation with the C.O.. He knocked on the door, and smiled wanly when he saw the amazed expressions on the faces of the two senior officers.
“Good gracious, Bigglesworth!” stammered Major Mullen. “We thought—Mahoney said—”
“Yes, I know, sir,” broke in Biggles. “I went down over the other side, but I’ve managed to get back. I’m sorry to say that poor Wells has gone West, though.”
“What happened?” asked the C.O..
Briefly, Biggles gave him an account of his adventures. When he mentioned, quite casually, the concrete emplacements he had seen in the forest, Colonel Raymond sprang to his feet with a sharp cry.
“You saw them?” he ejaculated.
“Why, yes sir,” replied Biggles. “Is there anything remarkable about them?”
“Remarkable! It’s the most amazing coincidence I ever heard of in my life!” And then, noting the puzzled look on the faces of the others: “You see,” he explained, “we heard that the Boche were bringing up some new long range guns, and to try to locate them was the mission poor Wells undertook this afternoon! You’ve found them—by sheer accident!
If you will mark them down on the map I’ll get back to headquarters right away!”
[Back to Contents]
* * *
1 Offensive Patrol.
2 Anti-aircraft gunfire.
3 German. Staffel, short for jadgstaffel. German squadron equivalent.
THE CAMERA
BIGGLES LANDED, taxied in, and sat for a moment or two on the “hump” of his Camel in front of the hangars. Then he yawned, switched off, and climbed stiffly to the ground.
“Is she flying all right, sir?” asked Smyth, his flight-sergeant, running up.
“She’s inclined to be a bit heavy on right rudder— nothing very much, but you might have a look at her.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the N.C.O., feeling the slack flying wires disapprovingly. “She wasn’t like this when you took off, sir.”
“Of course she wasn’t! You don’t suppose I’ve just been footling about between here and the Lines, do you?”
“No, sir: but you must have chucked her about a bit to get her into this state.”
Biggles yawned again, for he had been flying very high and was tired; but he did not think it worth while to describe a little affair he had had with a German Rumpler near Lille. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, and strolled slowly towards the officers’ mess.
A hum of conversation came from the ante-room as he opened the door.
“What’s all the noise about?” he asked as he sank down into a chair.
“Mac was just talking about narrow escapes,” replied Mahoney.
“Narrow escapes? What are they?” asked Biggles curiously.
“Why, don’t you have any?” inquired Algy Lacey, who had joined the squadron not long before.
“It depends what you call ‘narrow’,” Biggles replied.
“Oh, hallo, Bigglesworth! There you are!” said the C.O. from the door. “Come outside a minute, will you? Colonel Raymond, from Wing Headquarters, wants a word with you,” he went on as the door closed behind them.
Biggles saluted and then shook hands with the Wing officer.
“I’ve got a job for you, my boy,” smiled the Colonel.
Biggles grinned. “I was hoping you’d just called to see how I was,” he murmured.
“I’ve no time for pleasure trips,” laughed the Colonel. “But seriously, this is really something in your line; although, to be quite fair, I’ve put the same proposition to two or three other officers whom I can trust, in the hope that someone will succeed if the others fail.”
“Is Wilks—Wilkinson, I mean—one of them?” asked Biggles.
“Yes, and with an S.E.5 he might stand a better chance of success than you do in a Camel.”
Biggles stiffened. “I see,” he said shortly. “What is—”
“I’m coming to that now,” broke in the Colonel. “By the way, what do you think of this?”
He passed an enlarged photograph.
Biggles took it and stared at it with real interest, for it was the most perfect example of air photography he had ever seen. Although it must have been taken from a great height, every road, trench, tree, and building stood out as clearly as if it had been taken from a thousand feet or less.
“By jingo! That’s a smasher!” he muttered. “Is it one of ours?”
“Yes: but I’m afraid it’s the last one we shall ever get like it,” replied the Colonel.
Biggles looked up with a puzzled expression.
“The Huns are using that camera now.”
“Camera! Why, is there only one of them?”
“There is only one camera in the world that can take a photograph as perfect as that, and the Germans produced it. It’s all in the lens, of course, and I’ve an idea that that particular lens was never originally intended for a camera. It may have been specially ground for a telescope, or a microscope, but that is neither here nor there. As far as we are concerned, the Germans adapted it for a camera and we soon knew about it by the quality of the photographs that fell into our hands from German machines that came down over our side of the Lines.
“I’ll give you the facts, although I must be brief, as I have much to do. About three months ago we had a stroke of luck—a stroke that we never expected. The machine that was carrying the camera force-landed over our side, although force-landed is hardly the word. Apparently it came down rather low to avoid cloud interference, and the pilot was killed outright by archie, in the air. The observer was wounded, but he managed to get the machine down after a fashion.
“As soon as he was on the ground he fainted, which may account for the fact that he did not destroy or conceal the camera before he was taken prisoner. That was how the camera fell into our hands, and we lost no time in putting it to work. Needless to say, we took every possible precaution to prevent the Germans getting it back again.
“We had it fitted to a special D.H.4, the pilot of which had orders on no account to cross the Lines below eighteen thousand feet. Naturally, we had to send the machine over the Lines, otherwise the instrument would have been no use to us; we didn’t want photographs of our own positions. This pilot also had instructions to avoid combat at all costs, but if he did get into trouble, he was to throw the camera overboard, or do anything he liked with it as long as the Germans didn’t get hold of it again.”
“What was to prevent the Huns making another camera like it? Couldn’t they make another lens?” asked Biggles.
