All the same, he would have to do something, and going lower appeared to be the lesser of two evils. But Martin made a mental reservation as he closed the throttle for a further descent. If he had boobed badly and made altogether the wrong landfall he would climb back into the sky again and return to the aerodrome as fast as his engine would take him.
He might incur the severe displeasure of the Intelligence Corps and of his superior officers in general. He might have to endure the ribald jests of his light-hearted companions in the mess, but he was hanged if he was going to have Poulière’s death on his conscience through his inability to locate the right spot for dropping him, even if the fellow was only a Gonzubree spy.
Peering ahead through the murk, with one eye on the falling needle of his altimeter, Martin wondered anxiously if the clouds would ever break. Six thousand feet, five thousand, four thousand, three thousand and still the ground was totally invisible.
This was the very devil! It was madness to go any lower. Unless by the one chance in a million he had struck the exact spot for Poulière to get off, his presence would inevitably be discovered.
Martin cursed softly under his breath. However much he disliked the change of plan there was only one thing to be done. He must reopen his engine and cruise around until he found the break in the clouds that had so far eluded him.
Savagely pushing his throttle fully open, he eased back his control column and began to climb. Three thousand feet was much too low; he ought to have had the sense to stick at five thousand.
The engine responded smoothly and for some thirty seconds ran with unfaltering note. Then, suddenly, it spat.
Pist! it spat again; an ominous warning that would not be ignored. Wise with the experience of two months’ active service on the Western front, Martin instinctively retarded the throttle to two-thirds. Probably the carburettors were not filling fast enough to supply gas for full revolutions.
The remedy appeared to take effect and for a minute and a half the engine functioned normally. But before Martin had had time to recover from the scare the temporary failure had given him, the rhythmic roar died abruptly to nothingness.
Was it fuel, magnetos, a mechanical break? The queries chased one another through Martin’s mind as he instinctively depressed the nose of the Bristol into a glide. If it was a fuel stoppage he might get away with it yet; if ignition or mechanical trouble he had not a chance.
Feeling for the petrol tap he switched over to the reserve tank. By diving steeply the rush of air would revolve the propeller sufficiently to make the cylinders fire. Pray God she would pick up.
A hand clutched his shoulder and shook him with the fury of desperation.
“Qu’y a-t-il?” asked Poulière fearfully. “What’s the matter?”
His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the dead silence that had succeeded the engine failure.
“Engine’s stopped,” snapped Martin.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu, what is going to happen to me?”
He might have included me, thought Martin cynically. With those black crosses on the wings a British pilot could expect short shrift. The Belgian, in civilian clothes, and in his own territory, stood at least an even chance.
“Hold tight, I’m going to dive!” announced Martin shortly.
He held forward his control column until the wind was screaming through the bracing wires. Ahead of him he could see the propeller flapping round in spasmodic jerks. But although he waggled the throttle backwards and forwards there was not so much as a cough from the defunct power unit.
The Bristol was down below one thousand feet before he gave it up. It was no blinking use trying any longer. He would have to face the unpleasant fact of a forced landing behind the enemy lines.
A nasty lump kept rising in his throat as he looked wildly about him. He was so young to die; it would be his twenty-first birthday in a month and he had hoped for special leave to celebrate it at home. It would not have been so bad to have gone out in a scrap but there was something terrifying in the prospect of facing a firing squad.
A blubbing sound behind him cut through his fears like a knife. Poulière was evidently in a blue funk too. Surely he had more spunk than a common Gonzubree spy, Martin told himself firmly.
Of course he had. He had been entrusted with this job and he would see it through. Whatever happened to him afterwards there was no reason why he should not drop Poulière according to plan. The Colonel had been insistent that Poulière’s mission was of vital importance.
Exerting all his will-power he brought himself under control.
“Listen to me, Monsieur Poulière,” he cried over his shoulder. “Pull yourself together, man. You’re going to be all right, even if I’m not. Get ready to jump and I’ll land as far away from you as I can.”
He had to repeat himself twice before the terrified Belgian grasped his meaning. When at last he understood, his extravagant joy was as nauseating as his former despondency.
“It is that I shall be safe after all. Oh la la, Monsieur, this ees a beet of all right. I am so ’appy, yes!”
A sudden thought struck his happiness from him.
“But where shall I land. Will it be safe country? Cannot you take me to the place agreed?”
“No, I damned well can’t.” What a swine the fellow was. “As far as I can tell we’re to the south-west of Veldeghem instead of the north-east. You’ll have to make the best of it.”
“What a peety. I am not sure——”
“Nor am I—not of anything. Now get your parachute ready and prepare to jump when I tell you.”
Martin glared in furious concentration at the earth beneath. He would be thundering glad to get rid of this self-centred blighter. Facing the music in his company would be too humiliating.
Steadying the Bristol into the wind he directed his passenger in climbing over the side of the cockpit. When he was finally in position for the drop, with his finger in the ring attached to the rip-cord of his parachute, Martin gave him his final instructions.
“When I say ‘Now!’ just let go everything and count three slowly before you pull. The envelope will open immediately and you’ll be as right as ninepence. Now!”
Poulière stared at him in wide-eyed terror. His mouth was working.
“Now?” he echoed weakly.
“Yes, now. Go on, man, jump!”
“Non, non, I can’t, I can’t.”
“You can and you’ve got to.”
Leaning back, Martin brought down his fist on the spy’s gripping fingers. The unexpected pain made him release his hold, but realizing he was beginning to fall he made a wild clutch with the hand which was holding the rip-cord.
In doing so his thumb jerked the ring and the pilot parachute was drawn from the case. The wind whisked it aft and it fluttered over the top of the tail unit, dragging the main envelope after it.
“Jump, you fool!” yelled Martin fiercely. Appreciating the danger of the apparatus becoming entangled in the tail plane he struck again and again at Poulière’s hands. “My God!”
The exclamation was forced from him as his worst fears were realized. Poulière, unable to maintain his hold against Martin’s furious onslaught, had dropped off into space. At the same instant the flapping envelope, caught in a sudden gust of wind, had wrapped itself round tail plane and elevator, and the spy was now swinging helplessly twenty feet below the fuselage.
The Bristol was no higher than eight hundred feet. Unless by some miracle the tangled parachute freed itself in the next few seconds, Poulière must be dashed to death against the rapidly approaching earth.
Nor was this the sum total of the disaster. Poulière’s weight, acting on the flimsily constructed elevator, was tending to drag the control downwards, thus accelerating the gliding angle into a steep dive. Martin braced himself against the joy-stick to counteract the movement
, but in doing so he rendered himself impotent to control his approach and subsequent landing.
The next few moments were a nightmare. Wild thoughts raced through Martin’s mind as he tried to find a solution to his dilemma. If only there were some way he could release the envelope from its entanglement.
Had his engine been functioning he could have climbed higher and endeavoured to cast it loose in a stunt, but with his motor dead he was powerless. He dare not release the control column and attempt to scramble back along the fuselage at that low altitude. There was no time. Hell!
The aircraft sank lower and lower. Martin thought bitterly of the task he had set out so light-heartedly to accomplish. He had failed miserably. He had let down his squadron and the British Army. Green tabs would wait in vain for his information. In another few seconds, twenty at the most——
Crack! The control column went limp in his hand. Great Scott, what had happened? He turned swiftly. The parachute had disappeared.
The combination of Poulière’s weight and the force of the wind had proved too much for the starboard elevator. It had broken away from its hinges, allowing the Belgian to fall clear.
Martin barely had time to notice the envelope fluttering earthwards. His attention was at once fully occupied in fighting to retain the mastery of his crippled machine. With half the elevator gone the Bristol was in imminent danger of crashing.
Five hundred feet to go. Despite the fact that he was holding her up almost to stalling point the speed of descent was increasing.
Kicking over his rudder he went into a sideslip with the remaining port elevator uppermost. That was better. Perhaps if he kept like that the shock of the under wing striking the ground would give him a sporting chance of escape from serious injury.
What about Poulière? The white upper surface of the parachute was just visible through the darkness. Although it appeared to be almost at ground level the envelope was fully open.
Martin experienced a surge of thankfulness. Even if he were killed, it looked as though his job was finished after all. However it had come about, the bally spy was landed.
He had a blurred impression of the ground below him. A patch of water, the dark outline of a wood, a house. There were no lights to be seen anywhere in the neighbourhood. Perhaps——
Zunk! The starboard wing hit an invisible tree, crumpled. Martin felt his aircraft shudder, check, then it plunged nose foremost to the ground.
Afterwards he was never quite sure what actually happened. The tree must have acted as a buffer, he decided. One instant he was facing death, the next he was picking himself out of a large hawthorn bush that made an extremely painful cushion.
Thoroughly shaken by his experience he stood for a minute or two trying to pull himself together. By all that was wonderful he was alive. Except for hawthorn scratches he was unhurt.
The sound of hurrying feet reminded him that he was in enemy territory. His mind adverted instantly to the black crosses on the wings. He was rejoicing a trifle too soon.
He braced himself to face discovery. There was nothing he could do. He had no weapon and even if he had possessed a brace of machine-guns he could not engage the entire might of Germany.
Half a minute, though. Surely that was only one pair of feet. Perhaps if he overpowered this first arrival he would have time to remove those tell-tale crosses before any more enemies appeared.
Without the evidence that revealed his secret mission he would, since he was in uniform, be treated as an ordinary prisoner-of-war. The crosses made all the difference between life and a summary execution.
Stepping cautiously behind the hawthorn bush he waited with muscles tense for the enemy to appear. The footsteps were growing rapidly louder; quick short paces that suggested a smallish man, or possibly a woman.
Great heaven, it was a woman, a girl rather, slim and upright, walking with the grace of youth and health. He could see her outline distinctly as she advanced. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt with a shawl draped about her shoulders.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, Martin moved to meet her. Assuming that she was a native of the district he decided to throw himself on her mercy. At least she could tell him where he was.
Seeing him emerge from his hiding-place Clotilde Moreau halted abruptly. One hand clutched her shawl at the neck in a gesture of alarm. But the voice with which she challenged him was perfectly steady.
“Qui va là?”
“Je suis un officier anglais, Mademoiselle.”
Martin could speak French fluently.
“Anglais? You are English, Monsieur? But how——?”
Martin laughed softly at the surprise in her tone.
“My aeroplane has alighted itself into this tree here. I fear from now on I shall be obliged to walk.”
Clotilde did not consider his jest at all humorous.
“Oh la la! But this is terrible. The Germans will kill you if they find you.”
Once again Martin remembered the black crosses, and the inclination to joke faded away.
“Not if you will help me, Mademoiselle,” he begged earnestly. “Will you?”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“I will do what I can, of course, but it isn’t very much. What do you want me to do?”
Martin took her arm and led her to the wrecked aircraft.
“There are some black paper crosses pasted on the wings,” he explained. “We must scrape them off immediately. Water from the radiator will soften them. If the Germans saw them——”
Clotilde wrenched herself free.
“Did you fly over here alone?” she demanded excitedly.
“Yes, of course, why?”
The existence of Poulière must remain a secret even from his new-found ally.
“You are sure you did not bring someone with you?”
“Perfectly sure.”
Clotilde sadly shook her head.
“Perhaps you do not trust me, Monsieur, but I know.”
“You know what?”
“That you did not come alone.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“You carried a Belgian agent who was to be dropped near here by parachute.”
Martin did not immediately reply. Her assertion was too correct to be mere guesswork. But how did she come to be in possession of such vitally important information.
He decided to head her off with banter.
“You’ll be telling me his name next,” he remarked lightly.
“That, too, if you wish. It is Jacques Poulière.”
“Sacré Nom! How can you know that?”
She shrugged her shoulders daintily.
“It is very simple; Jacques is my fiancé and I was expecting him.”
Astounding though the revelation was, it filled Martin with relief. It assured him that he was amongst friends and when Poulière presently put in an appearance they might agree to hide him until he could be smuggled over the Dutch frontier.
“That certainly alters matters,” he declared. “Yes, you’re quite right, Mademoiselle, I did bring Monsieur Poulière with me.”
He went on to explain how the failure of his engine had upset their plans.
“You’re sure he got down all right?” asked Clotilde anxiously.
“I see no reason to suppose otherwise; his parachute was fully extended.”
“In which direction was it falling?”
Martin pointed to the west.
“Over there, I think, about half a mile. Here, I say——”
But she had gone, running swiftly into the night.
Had it not been an urgent necessity to remove the paper crosses, Martin would have followed but he dare not risk the possibility of their being discovered in his absence.
Draining some water from the radiator, w
hich was fortunately undamaged, he set to work. He found that the mechanics who had pasted them in position had made a thorough job of it, and, hampered by the position of the wreck the task of removal was painfully slow.
He had not quite removed one sign when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. It was a sharp word of command and it was addressed to a line of shadowy forms, spread out at regular intervals, advancing directly towards him.
A detachment of German infantry methodically scouring the neighbourhood. There could be little doubt about their objective. Someone had reported the fall of an unknown aircraft and they were searching for its whereabouts.
Martin made up his mind in a flash. He might not be able to avoid capture but he was hanged if he would let them find those crosses.
Seizing the petrol feed pipe, he wrenched with all his might. The copper tube snapped short and a steady stream of fuel poured from the tank. He struck a match; it spluttered and went out. He struck another with a similar result. The wind was wicked.
The approaching Germans were no more than two hundred yards distant. Unless he were successful in the next few seconds his ruse would be too late.
Cupping his hands he tried again with trembling fingers. The light flared and he bent swiftly to apply it to the soaked fabric of the wreck. But for the third time the wind proved his enemy.
Wild thoughts crowded his mind. Dare he risk another? No. Even if it lit, the enemy would be on the spot before the flames could destroy the evidence against him.
What should he do? Give himself up or make a dash for it? If he surrendered they were certain to shoot him. Very well, he would remain at liberty as long as he could.
Keeping the aircraft between himself and the searchers, he walked swiftly through the little wood. Once clear of the trees he broke into a run. In a few seconds they would be looking for the missing pilot, but it would take them hours to search the whole district and in the meantime anything might happen.
His one chance of escape was to find Poulière. The Belgian had friends in the neighbourhood as was evidenced by the arrival of the girl. If they would hide him for a day or two and give him some civilian clothes he might succeed in making his way into Holland.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 22
