Biggles and the Rescue Flight Read online

  Crouching low, with the stealth of an Indian on the war-path, Biggles made his way to the rear of the but, where he sank on to his right knee and beckoned the others to join him. From inside the hut came the harsh voice of the unter offizier, answered occasionally by a softer tone.

  ‘We shall have to wait until they come out,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Jump out when I do and be ready to shoot like lightning. If they drop their rifles and put their hands up, all right, but any move by one of them to raise his rifle, let him have it. It’s the only way. It’s either they or we for it, and they won’t hesitate to shoot us. Ssh! Here they come.’

  About the Author

  Captain W.E. Johns was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The first Biggles story, Biggles the Camels are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.

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  BIGGLES BOOKS

  PUBLISHED IN THIS EDITION

  FIRST WORLD WAR:

  Biggles Learns to Fly

  Biggles Flies East

  Biggles the Camels are Coming

  Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

  Biggles in France

  Biggles and the Rescue Flight

  BETWEEN THE WARS:

  Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor

  Biggles and Co.

  Biggles Flies West

  Biggles Goes to War

  Biggles and the Black Peril

  Biggles in Spain

  SECOND WORLD WAR:

  Biggles Defies the Swastika

  Biggles Delivers the Goods

  Biggles Defends the Desert

  Biggles Fails to Return

  BIGGLES AND THERESCUE FLIGHT

  Captain W.E. Johns

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781409098584

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks for help given in the preparation of these editions to Jennifer Schofield, author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd and especially to the late John Trendler.

  BIGGLES AND THE RESCUE FLIGHT

  A RED FOX BOOK : 9780099938606

  First published in Great Britain as The Rescue Flight: A Biggles Story by

  Oxford University Press, 1939

  This Red Fox edition published 2004

  10

  Copyright © W E Johns (Publications) Ltd, 1939

  The right of W E Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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  Red Fox Books are published by Random House Children’s Books,

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  A Random House Group Company

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  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009 www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire

  Contents

  1. Peter Fortymore Receives Bad News

  2. The Adventure Begins

  3. France

  4. Into the Blue

  5. A Discussion in Confidence

  6. The Great Adventure

  7. Neck or Nothing

  8. A Race for Life

  9. Forty Makes a Proposition

  10. A Dangerous Mission

  11. Rescue Flight to the Rescue

  12. Cutting It Fine

  13. Disaster

  14. Belville-Sur-Somme

  15. A Desperate Predicament

  16. ‘Captain Forsyth of the Buffs’

  17. A Life for a Life

  18. Thirty Goes Back

  19. Through Thick and Thin

  20. Accused

  The word ‘Hun’ as used in this book, was the common generic term for anything belonging to the enemy. It was used in a familiar sense, rather than derogatory. Witness the fact that in the R.F.C. a hun was also a pupil at a flying training school.

  W.E.J

  Chapter 1

  Peter Fortymore Receives Bad News

  There was a pensive, almost wistful, expression on the face of the Honourable Peter Fortymore as, with his chin cupped in his hands, he sat at his study window and stared out across the deserted, moonlit playing-fields of Rundell School, where for five years he had been a pupil. The door behind him opened, but he did not turn, for he knew from the heavy, deliberate footsteps that the newcomer was his friend and room-mate, Dick Ripley, known throughout the upper school as Rip.

  ‘Hello, Thirty, what are you doing?’ he began, but ‘Thirty’ silenced him with a gesture.

  ‘Hark,’ he said tersely.

  Rip joined him at the window and then stood still, his head a little to one side, listening. From far away, rising and falling on a light breeze, came a dull mutter, punctuated from time to time by a heavier rolling boom.

  Seen thus in the moonlight the two boys were in strange contrast. Peter Fortymore—or ‘Thirty’, as he had promptly been dubbed when he had arrived from prep. school, since his elder brother, already at Rundell, answered to ‘Forty’—was slim and dark, with finely cut features which revealed clearly his aristocratic lineage and Norman ancestors. Rip, with his flaxen hair and blue eyes, was of the heavier Saxon type; yet, curiously enough, on the rugger field his ferocious rush was often outwitted by Thirty’s swift, shrewdly considered tactics.

  For some minutes they stood listening, both gazing towards the east whence came the ominous rumble.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Rip at last.

  ‘Gun fire,’ answered Thirty in a strained voice. ‘Listen to it. The wind is from the east; that’s why we can hear so plainly to-night. There must be a big strafe on.’

  ‘Forty’s out there, isn’t he?’

  Thirty nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s been out there over six months now, yet it seems only the other day that he was here with us. By Jove! Remember him knocking up that century last summer against Winchester? Now he is flying, fighting in the air—and still playing the game, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Yes, he was a grand chap,’ admitted Rip. ‘What was that motto you used to shout at each other at games?’

  Thirty smiled. ‘Thick and thin.’

  ‘What did it mean?’

  ‘Oh, it was only a free translation of our old family war-cry, meaning
that we stick to each other through thick and thin. I wish I was out there with him. He’s only two years older than I am, but I suppose they won’t let me go into the R.F.C.*1 for another year at least. I’ve a jolly good mind to go now.’

  ‘But dash it all, Thirty, you’re not old enough.’

  ‘I’m nearly seventeen. Heaps of chaps have joined under that age.’

  ‘I know. I’m a bit older than you are, but my guv’nor wouldn’t hear of my going yet. He’s out there, too—a colonel in the Sappers. He told the Head—gosh! I forgot to tell you. The Head sent me to say that he wanted to see you in his study right away.’

  Thirty looked up sharply, searching his mind for a possible reason for the summons. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Wait here; I shan’t be long.’

  Three minutes later he knocked lightly on the door of the Head’s study, and in response to the curt ‘Come in’ he opened it, and walked briskly towards the massive desk where he expected the Head would be sitting. He was, therefore, a trifle surprised to find him standing in the centre of the room, an unusual expression on his face; furthermore, his manner was odd, almost agitated.

  ‘Come in, my boy,’ he said, in a curiously husky voice, and stepping forward rested his hands on Thirty’s shoulders, at the same time looking down into the keen, questioning face. ‘Fortymore,’ he continued, ‘since you have been at Rundell, whatever your failings may have been you have always played the man. That makes my task . . . easier. Try to live up to that now. I have bad news for you.’

  Thirty moistened his lips. A cold hand seemed to settle over his heart. Somehow, he sensed what was coming. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said firmly. ‘Is it—Nigel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  Thirty bowed his head so that the Head should not see his face. His teeth sank deeply into his lower lip. ‘I won’t blub,’ he told himself fiercely. ‘I won’t.’ Something seemed to rise up in his throat, choking him, and forcing tears into his eyes. He felt the Head’s grip tighten on his shoulders.

  ‘Bear up, my boy,’ whispered the master unsteadily.

  Thirty felt the Head’s grip suddenly relax; heard him walk over to his desk and sit down. When he looked up he saw a sight he would never have imagined. The Head’s face was buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Thirty stared. A sense of unreality swept over him. The whole thing was a dream. It was preposterous—the Head, of all people, blubbing.

  Suddenly the master stood up and blew his nose noisily. ‘Forgive me,’ he said huskily. ‘If this is hard for you to bear, remember that it is also hard for me. One by one my boys are going out there . . . to the battle-field. One by one they fall. You have lost but one, Fortymore, but I have lost many. Your brother was Captain of the School the year before he left us, and in that capacity I saw much of him. A finer fellow never stepped into a classroom or on a playing-field.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ choked Thirty, still fighting to keep back the tears. ‘How did it happen, sir—do you know?’

  ‘All I know is what I have learned from these,’ answered the Head, pointing to three letters that lay on his desk. ‘One is from the War Office, informing me that Nigel is missing, believed killed, and since you are his next of kin I am requested to break the news to you. The second letter is from your family lawyers, asking me as your temporary guardian—since you are an orphan—to inform you of your brother’s presumed death, and to notify you that the title passes to you. You are now Lord Fortymore. The third letter is a copy of a report from Nigel’s Commanding Officer. It is very brief. After speaking highly of your brother’s character and ability he goes on to say that Nigel’s aeroplane was last seen by other members of the squadron falling out of control over Zafferville. A forward artillery observation officer watched the machine crash behind the lines. That is all, except that a German communiqué issued on the day in question states that five British machines were shot down by their airmen, all the occupants being killed. In each case the aircraft burst into flames when it struck the ground, so identification was impossible. It seems doubtful, therefore, if we shall ever know any more.’

  Thirty nodded heavily. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘Have I your leave to go, sir? I should like to—think.’

  ‘There is one last thing.’ The Head opened the drawer of his desk and took out a letter. ‘Nigel sent this, addressed to you, about a month ago, with a request that if—anything happened to him—I should pass it on to you.’

  Still feeling that he was dreaming, Thirty took the letter and put it in his pocket. The Head held out his hand. They shook hands in silence, and then Thirty swung round and walked quickly from the room.

  Rip was still sitting by the open window when he returned to the study. ‘Close the window, Rip,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Thirty passed his hand wearily over his face. ‘Nigel has been killed,’ he said and, slumping down into his chair, he buried his face in his hands.

  There was a long silence. Rip sat very still, staring out into the darkness whence still came the distant mutter of guns.

  At last Thirty looked up. ‘I have a last letter from him,’ he said, in a curiously even voice. ‘He wrote it to me some time ago.’ Taking the letter from his pocket he tore it open and read it from beginning to end. When he had finished he looked up again at Rip. ‘Listen to this,’ he said eagerly. ‘I may be a fool, but somehow it almost gives me hope. I have a sort of feeling from it—that Nigel may not be dead, after all. Listen; I’ll read the letter to you.

  Dear Thirty,

  I hope you will never read this letter. Funny way of beginning isn’t it, but you’ll understand what I mean. The fact is, old boy, things are pretty hot out here, and although I hope I am not a pessimist it seems to me that sooner or later one is pretty certain to get in the way of a small piece of lead travelling in the opposite direction with considerable velocity. We are losing a lot of fellows—five in my squadron last week—but they are not all being killed. Which brings me to the point. Quite a number are being taken prisoner, although they are not to be blamed for that, because if a bullet knocks a lump off your engine you have got to go down, so if you happen to be on the wrong side of the line—well, it’s your unlucky day. So many fellows are going West in this way that the War Office is sending an officer round—an ex-prisoner who escaped—to give people the tip what to do if they find themselves on the floor in Germany. The chap came here about a fortnight ago, and at the end of the lecture he asked if any one had any questions. There were a lot of brass-hats*2 present, and they smirked when I suggested that we ought to organize a sort of special rescue flight—the idea being to pick up fellows who were shot down. Having no imagination they only laughed at me, but, personally, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be done.

  ‘From what I hear, the most difficult part of escaping is getting across the frontier. Scores of fellows are stout enough to break out of the prison camps, but what with dog patrols, electrified wire, double frontiers, hunger, and so on, few succeed in getting out of Germany. Sooner or later they are recaptured, when they are punished pretty severely for their efforts. Yet why need they have to get across the frontier? It seems to me that if certain big fields inside Germany were marked down, and fellows in the R.F.C. knew which they were, they could make for them when they found themselves on the wrong side of the lines (either before they were actually captured, or after breaking out of prison). The rescue flight would go to these fields from time to time to pick the fugitives up. It could do other useful things, too, such as making secret food dumps on which escaped prisoners could live until they were picked up. I say it is absurd that no attempt is made to rescue them. A fellow going out on a risky show might even make provision to be picked up if he was forced down on the wrong side of the lines. For instance, take my own case. You remember those holidays we spent together at Berglaken, when the guv’nor was Ambassador at Berlin? Remember the old hut
in the valley where we used to sleep when we went fishing? I could hide there indefinitely. Within a mile of it, at the foot of the hills, there is a whacking great field big enough for a dozen machines to land in. If I went down I believe I could live on fish, corn, and fruit for a long time. Anyway, if one day I fail to return from a show, you will know where to find me.

  ‘Well, that’s all for the present, old boy. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to get out here; it isn’t all beer and skittles—as the troops say. My compliments to the Head and best regards to Rip and the others.

  Through thick and thin,

  Yours,

  Nigel.

  ‘That’s what I call a sensible letter,’ declared Rip when Thirty had finished reading. ‘Pity we aren’t in France; if we were we’d go and have a look round this place Berglaken.’

  Thirty folded the letter and put it in his pocket. ‘I’m going, anyway,’ he declared.

  ‘Going—where?’

  ‘To France.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Rip stared. ‘Are you mad?’

  Thirty shook his head. ‘I was never more sane in my life.’

  ‘But how . . . ?’

  ‘Listen, Rip,’ said Thirty crisply. ‘For the last three months you and I have been getting up at four o’clock in the morning, breaking out of school, and biking to the flying school at Barton to learn to fly so that we shan’t have so long to wait before we are sent to France when we do join up. We can both fly, and the only reason that we haven’t got our certificates is because we are under age. I’ve done eighteen hours’ solo, and you have done nearly as much; plenty of fellows have gone to France with less experience than that. Heaps have learned to fly privately so that they can get to France quickly—Nigel told me so. All the same, I don’t mind admitting that I felt a prize cad about breaking school when the Head was so jolly decent just now—but there, it couldn’t be helped, and we are only doing it for the best. I have no parents to worry about me. Nigel was my only relation—apart from distant cousins who do not matter.’