by W E Johns
Biggles took his map from his pocket and studied the position of Soyons des Dames and the landmarks surrounding it until he felt quite sure that he would be able to find the French aerodrome without further reference to the map. He then looked around his machine to make sure that the tanks were full and everything else in order.
The sound of voices made him look up. Vouvray —or the man who called himself Vouvray—and several other officers, including Mark, were strolling towards the hangars. The Frenchman had his flying-kit over his arm.
“Come on! Get that engine started!” Biggles ordered his fitter, crisply, then walked slowly round the machine, examining struts, wires, ailerons, and tail unit in just the same way as he would normally before making a test flight. His eyes, however, were not on the machine; they were on the Frenchman.
“What’s the idea, Biggles?” called Mabs, with a puzzled frown.
“Oh, just a test!” replied Biggles casually. “She was flying a bit left wing low yesterday, so I’ve had her re-rigged, in case we had to turn out in a hurry.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, though,” he went on, addressing the Frenchman. “You must have picked up a flint as you taxied in. My sergeant has just discovered it; so, knowing you might want to get away, I’ve told him to get on with it as fast as he can.”
The Frenchman halted, then took a quick step towards his machine. Biggles was watching him closely. He saw his fists clench suddenly as his eyes fell on the dismantled wheel, but not by any other movement did he betray what was passing through his mind. Yet those clenched hands told Biggles all he needed to know. The man was agitated, and his anxiety was increased by the delay the puncture would cause.
“It will be about half an hour before it’s ready,” went on Biggles. “Would you like to have a joy-ride in my machine while you’re waiting? That is, if you’re not afraid to fly in a British machine?”
The words were more than an invitation, and Biggles knew it. They expressed a challenge that no airman could ignore if he did not wish to be thought a coward.
“Thanks!” said Vouvray slowly. “I am delighted at such an honour”; and he started pulling on his flying-coat.
Biggles, who had climbed into his cockpit, glanced down. For an instant their eyes met, and he turned quickly to the instrument board in order that the other should not read what was in his mind. He no longer had any doubts about his man. In spite of that smiling exterior, he knew he was dealing with a cold, calculating enemy, who would kill him without the slightest compunction.
The French officer swung himself up into the gunner’s cockpit, which in the F.E. is situated in front of the pilot, and settled down in his seat.
The clouds had lifted considerably, but they looked as if they might come down again at any moment; visibility was still very bad, limited perhaps to half a mile. Twice Biggles circled the aerodrome, noting that his passenger was taking more than a normal interest in the layout of the buildings, and then he struck off on a direct course for Soyons des Dames. He knew that he would be the best part of an hour reaching it at cruising speed.
The Frenchman twisted his head and raised his eyebrows questioningly as the machine struck off on what was obviously a deliberate course; but Biggles only smiled and pretended to be studying his controls. Five minutes passed and still the machine held on its course. Again the Frenchman turned. This time he was not smiling.
“Where you go?” he shouted.
Biggles knew that pretence could not help him much longer. Within the next five minutes his passenger must know for certain that they were not merely testing the plane but were bound for a definite destination. He therefore decided to settle the matter once and for all, “Soyons des Dames—to see Jaques Fabrier!”
A look of understanding dawned swiftly in the other’s eyes, and his hand started creeping down towards his pocket. But Biggles was ready. His automatic leapt into his left hand, and the muzzle bored into the leather-clad back of his passenger.
“Put your hands outside the cockpit!” he bellowed; and as the order was obeyed: “If you move them I’ll blow a hole through you!” he added.
Twenty minutes passed, and he began to find the strain of flying the machine with his right hand, keeping the Frenchman covered with his left, and at the same time watching his landmarks, almost unbearable.
The country was new to him or he would have made for the nearest aerodrome, either British or French; but he knew of none in the vicinity, and it was impossible for him to examine his map. Another five minutes passed slowly, and then the clouds came down as if suspending cords had been suddenly cut.
He had been flying at a thousand feet, which was as high as he could get without entering the clouds, and as they closed down on him he was compelled to push the joystick forward. Lower and lower he was forced, until he was swimming over the landscape at two hundred feet, and the machine began to rock in the air currents set in motion by the great mass of moving moisture.
A spatter of snow swept into his face, and the ground was almost obliterated by the scurrying flakes.
An upcurrent caught the machine and lifted it like a feather, and at the same moment a thick scurry of snow piled up on his goggles, temporarily blinding him. He could not take his right hand from the joystick, for it was as much as he could do to keep the machine under control, so he was compelled to use his left hand to push up his goggles in order to see. As if he had been waiting for that very moment Vouvray twisted like an eel in his seat and struck. His right hand caught Biggles’ left arm, already weary with holding the automatic, and forced it down on to the windscreen in a grip of iron. With his left hand he tore the weapon from Biggles’ grasp.
Biggles did not stop to think, but acted with a suddenness that surprised himself. The spy was actually levelling the automatic when Biggles kicked out his left foot on the rudder-bar, and then jerked the stick back into his right thigh. The instant result was a stunt that he never attempted to repeat.
The machine, subject first to full rudder, skidded like a heavy car on a greasy road, and then zoomed upwards. The spy was flung violently against the opposite side of the cockpit. For a moment Biggles thought he was going overboard, but he recovered himself by an effort, grabbing at the edge of the cockpit with both hands. The automatic hurtled away into space.
By the time Biggles had got the machine on even keel and on its course again—or what he hoped was its course—the spy had drawn a Mauser from his pocket and covered him. Biggles found himself staring straight down the muzzle of the weapon.
The spy made a threatening gesture with his gun, but Biggles ignored it. The spy then pointed to the east, and Biggles knew what he meant; he was to fly over the Lines to Germany, so that when his petrol ran out and he was forced to land, the other would be in his own country.
If the supposed Frenchman shot Biggles, the machine would crash, and kill him, too. Even if Biggles found an aerodrome and attempted to land, the spy would shoot as soon as their wheels touched, and try to escape. It looked as if whatever move he made could only have one ending—the death of both of them.
He saw a thin patch in the clouds just ahead, and as he climbed towards it a new idea struck him, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. The spy was standing up, watching him, leaning back on the far side of his cockpit. He was not strapped in, having undone the safety belt when he had made his first attack.
Biggles set his teeth, thrust the stick forward savagely, then pulled it back into his stomach. The machine soared upwards in a loop. He saw the other’s face change as he realised his peril. He watched him throughout the loop and saw him jam his shoulders into the sides of the cockpit as they came over the top. And then they were on even keel again in the same relative positions as before.
The ruse failed, and Biggles knew the reason. In his anxiety he had looped too quickly, and centrifugal force had kept the man in the machine. Very well, he would try a slow loop, and see if that would do the trick.
He had
gripped the joystick in order to put his plan into execution when the spy raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Biggles ducked instinctively. The report nearly deafened him. He felt nothing, yet it seemed impossible that the fellow could miss at such close range. Another bullet whizzed past his head. Missed again!
The spy was taking aim for the third time when Biggles realised that he was shooting at the propeller!
Bang! Biggles held his breath as a fourth shot rang out. He knew instantly that it had missed, for vibration would immediately announce a hit. The corners of the spy’s mouth turned down as with his left hand he reached for one of the drums of Lewis-gun ammunition that rested under the gun mounting.
Biggles’ heart stood still. With such a missile it was impossible to miss. He had braced himself for the shock, when the other dived suddenly to the floor of the cockpit.
At the same instant the unmistakable rattle of a machine-gun from somewhere near at hand came to Biggles’ ears. He glanced back over his shoulder. A green-and-red German Albatros was dropping on them like a stone, two long streams of yellow fire pouring from the guns under its centre section. In the face of the new danger the old one was forgotten, and Biggles slewed the F.E. round in a mad turn.
He felt the vicious impact from several bullets striking the machine; but they seemed to do no damage, and he went into a deep turn to consider the situation. The spy jumped up in his seat as soon as the bullets stopped, and made frantic signals to the pilot of the black-crossed machine as they whirled round in a tight circle.
The Boche pilot lost no time in expressing his contempt of the signals, which obviously meant nothing to him, for he treated the F.E. to another murderous burst of fire. Biggles, who had no gun, could do nothing but stunt, and he stunted as he had never stunted before.
The spy was cowering on the bottom of the cockpit. In the brief intervals between each stunt, Biggles snatched quick glances at the ground, wondering if it had been possible for him to cross the Lines during the snowstorm without being aware of it. He decided that it was not possible, and the Hun was hunting over the Allied side of the Lines.
He straightened the F.E., looking around for his aggressor. He was just in time to see the red, white and blue cockades of a French Spad race past him. Two more were tearing towards the scene. Then the clouds seemed to open and fill the air with a million flying snowflakes.
Biggles caught his breath and struggled to keep pace with the swiftly moving events. Swift as the sight of the Spad had been, he had noticed the figure 58 painted in white on the side of the fuselage. That could only mean that the machine belonged to Escadrille Fifty-eight, so Soyons des Dames could not be far away. Actually, although he did not know it, the Spad pilots, who had received orders from Headquarters, were out looking for him.
Half-blinded by the driving snow which was fast piling up in every corner of the machine where it could find a hold, Biggles stared anxiously below, trying to see the ground. He ignored his passenger.
Whatever happened when they reached the ground, landing could no longer be delayed. A white sheet, broken by dark, discoloured patches, seemed to rise up to meet him. It was the snow-covered landscape.
There was no question of choosing a landing-place, and he snatched the throttle back, intending to hold the machine off as long as he could, praying frantically that it would be a hedge and not a solid wall that arrested his progress. The chances were a thousand to one against finding a spot free from obstruction.
His wheels struck the ground violently, and the machine shot twenty feet into the air.
A dull grey mass loomed ahead, and Biggles covered his face with his arms. There was a tearing, splintering crash and then silence.
Instantly he was fighting furiously to extricate himself from the tangle of woodwork, fabric, wires and the branches of the tree with which they had collided. Blood was streaming from a cut over his eye, and he was conscious of a nauseating pain in his left ankle, but he paid no heed to it.
He dragged himself clear and limped painfully to a leafless hedge, where he flung himself down, expecting every moment to feel a bullet boring into his body.
He raised his head and looked around; the spy was nowhere in sight. For two or three minutes Biggles remained thus, watching and listening. The silence, after the roar of his engine, was appalling, and seemed to overwhelm him.
The only sound was the soft hiss of the falling snow-flakes. He began to crawl slowly towards the wreck. Had it been his luck to escape while the spy had been disabled? He did not know, but he would soon find out. He raised himself on the bank beside the hedge, eyes searching the wreck, and he caught his breath sharply as he saw a boot projecting from a tattered wing.
It was the work of a moment to limp across, seize the leading edge and lift it. The spy lay motionless, blood oozing from a small hole in the centre of his forehead. Biggles let the wing fall again and stood swaying.
“Killed by a bullet from one of his own side. That’s poetic justice, if you like!” he muttered weakly.
The sound of voices made him look up with a start. A dozen blue-coated soldiers were scrambling over the hedge, some officers at their head. They stopped when they reached the machine and saluted gravely. Then one of them, an elderly officer with a grey beard, lifted the wing and gazed at the body underneath. There was a curious expression on his face when he looked up.
“My name is Major Bricault, of the French Intelligence Service,” he said quietly in English.
“Do you—know him?” asked Biggles, inclining his head towards the body of his late passenger.
“Yes, only too well,” was the reply. “He has been known to us for some time. We know him as Franz Hymann, of the German Secret Service. But let us help you to the car. We came as quickly as we could when we heard the crash; we were waiting on the aerodrome, which is not far away.
“We will ring up your squadron and tell them you are safe, and that you are dining with us tonight!”
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1 Pour the sauce: French idiom for open the throttle.
