Biggles Goes to War Read online

  ‘Lie flat, everybody,’ ordered Biggles. ‘We shall spread our weight that way.’ So saying, he pushed the raft clear. Instantly the powerful current took it in its grip and it swung, turning round slowly, out into the stream.

  They were less than halfway over, all watching the bend round which their pursuers would appear, when a hound, baying furiously, bounded round the corner. A moment later a soldier appeared, then another, and a shout told those on the raft that they had been seen.

  ‘Heads down, everybody,’ ordered Biggles quietly. ‘They’ll start shooting in a minute. We needn’t get worried if they do; I’ve yet to meet a man who can fire a rifle with any sort of accuracy after he has been running.’

  Hardly were the words past his lips when a rifle crashed and a line of spray zipped across the surface of the water about a yard from the raft. Biggles pulled out his pistol and returned the fire, more to upset the marksman’s aim than from any real hope of hitting him. Bang! Bang! Bang! roared the weapon, and the several Lovitznians who had now appeared dived into the wood for cover. ‘How far are we from the bank, Ginger?’ he asked, with his eyes on the place where the Lovitznians had disappeared.

  ‘Twenty yards.’

  ‘Shall we go ashore on that spit of sand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Then jump for it everybody, as soon as we touch, and make a dash for cover. Swerve as you run and throw yourselves flat as soon as you are among the trees.’

  An instant later there was a jar as the swiftly drifting raft struck the bank, and a violent lurch as somebody jumped ashore. Biggles could not see who it was. There was a ragged volley from the opposite bank and several bullets flicked up the water perilously near the raft. Bang! Bang! roared Biggles’s weapon again as he fired at the flashes. Another lurch told him that the second passenger had jumped ashore and that he was now alone on the raft, so, after emptying his pistol at the enemy’s position, he leapt ashore and darted, zigzagging as he ran, towards the trees. A bullet kicked up the sand near his feet; another whistled past his head and tore a long white splinter from the side of a tree, but he reached his objective untouched, and, flinging himself flat, wormed his way into the undergrowth. ‘Are you all right?’ he called anxiously.

  Both Ginger and the Count answered him in the affirmative, and he relaxed with relief. ‘Start working your way into the thickest of the trees, but take care not to show yourselves,’ he ordered, and after allowing them to get a short start, he followed. There was plenty of cover, so the move was not really dangerous, and when, presently, he came to a fold in the hillside, he found the others sitting on a boulder, waiting for him.

  ‘We were just about in time, weren’t we?’ He smiled at the Count, who seemed not in the least perturbed by the hardships and dangers he had undergone.

  The Count nodded cheerfully. ‘We’re still in Lovitzna, though, don’t forget,’ he said warningly.

  ‘How far are we from the frontier?’

  ‘Not more than two miles, I think.’

  ‘Good! Then if it’s all the same to you, we’ll push on. The sooner we are out of this country and into our own, the sooner shall I breathe freely. The terrain is flat on the other side of these hills, if I remember rightly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the ground falls away quickly to the central plain.’

  ‘Then if we can get there, there is a chance that Algy may spot us and pick us up,’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘I expect he will be in the air by this time, looking for us – that is, if he got back all right,’ he added a trifle anxiously.

  It was a steep pull up the hill and it took them nearly an hour to reach the top. The river was somewhere below them but they could not see it owing to the trees, nor could they hear any sounds of pursuit. A few minutes’ rest to regain their breath and they started off again, now travelling downhill. Another twenty minutes brought them to the frontier, an ordinary barbed-wire fence, but no one was in sight. If there was a frontier patrol they did not see it, so they lost no time in climbing over the fence into their own country.

  ‘That’s better,’ announced Biggles, as they set off again, plunging down the tree-clad slopes towards the open plain.

  They had not been going very long when the sound of an aircraft was borne to their ears.

  ‘That’s Algy!’ cried Ginger delightedly.

  Biggles shook his head as his practised ear took in the note of the engines, now rapidly drawing nearer. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Look!’ He pointed up through the tree-tops as a formation of scouts raced low overhead. They carried the brown crosses of Lovitzna, and on the leader’s wing-struts were small triangular pennants. ‘Looking for us, I’ll be bound,’ he added. ‘Well, they’ll be clever if they spot us among these trees.’

  ‘What about when we get in the open?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Let’s wait until we get there,’ returned Biggles evenly.

  They saw the enemy machines several times as they went on down the slope. There was no doubt as to their object, but, as Biggles had said, there was little reason to fear that they would be seen, and even if they were it was difficult to know what the aircraft could do, for the hillside was certainly no place for a landing.

  ‘The only thing that worries me is that Algy might come beetling over looking for us and run into this tribe of cut-throats,’ murmured Biggles, nodding towards the Lovitznian formation which could just be seen in the distance.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ answered Ginger moodily, as they hurried on down the steep incline.

  After that little more was said. It took them the best part of an hour to reach the open country beyond the foothills; in fact, during that time only one observation was made, and that was when a machine, obviously a two-seater, sailed over at a tremendous height. ‘It looks as if they’re bringing out their entire air force to look for us,’ remarked Biggles, as he glanced upwards.

  ‘I think I can see a farm-house over there,’ put in the Count. ‘We might make our way towards it in the hope of begging something to eat and a cup of tea or coffee. They will hardly refuse us that when they learn who we are.’

  ‘That sounds a sensible idea to me,’ agreed Biggles warmly.

  Increasing their pace, they set off towards the homestead, pushing their way through a hedge and cutting across a wide field as the shortest way. Thus it came about that they were right in the open and a good hundred yards from the nearest cover when the patrol leader of the enemy formation suddenly skimmed low over the hills immediately behind them.

  Biggles realized the danger instantly, for there was no question as to whether or not they would be seen. The enemy pilots were obviously still looking for them, although the formation had broken up, possibly with the object of covering more ground, and the man in the brown-crossed fighter had now only to look down to see the fugitives, outlined clearly against the white background of swiftly melting snow.

  Biggles had jerked to a standstill as the machine came into view. For a moment he stared at it while he summed up the situation. Then he started running back towards the nearest point of the hedge, where, having crossed it, he knew there was a ditch. ‘Come on, he shouted, for he knew by the manner in which the nose of the enemy machine dropped suddenly that they had been seen.

  They were still ten yards from the hedge when the harsh rattle of machine-guns cut clear above the increasing roar of the engine, and a stream of bullets sent snow and turf leaping into the air. It stirred them to frantic efforts, and they all flung themselves pell-mell into the ditch as the fighter zoomed over them, its wheels not more than a few yards over their heads.

  ‘Get flat in the bottom of the ditch,’ yelled Biggles frantically. ‘Never mind the snow. This fellow means business.’

  He heard the machine scream round and come racing back, and a glance showed him that the pilot was doing what he feared he would; not that he expected otherwise, for he knew from his own experience that they were dealing with a man who understood his business. Instead
of flying across the ditch as he had on the first occasion, he was now getting into a position from which he could fly straight along it, enfilading it with a raking fire for its entire length in the manner adopted by trench-strafing pilots during the war. Yet there was nothing they could do, and Biggles knew it. Their only chance was to remain where they were, although it seemed more than likely that one or all of them would be hit; yet to forsake the ditch for the open would only make that more certain.

  It was at this moment, while Biggles was racking his brains for some solution to the desperate problem with which they were faced, that he became vaguely aware of a change in the situation. The information was not conveyed to him by his eyes, for he had wedged himself as tightly as he could into the black mud at the bottom of the ditch. It was the noise that told him something had happened, for it seemed suddenly to swell to an incredible volume, as if the pilot was deliberately flying his machine straight into the ground. For perhaps three seconds his guns chattered, the bullets thudding into the ground and smashing through the hedge; then they, too, seemed to rise to an ear-splitting crescendo, as if half a dozen guns instead of two were firing. For one dreadful moment Biggles thought that the Lovitznian had been joined by his companions, but squirming over on to his back he looked up, and the problem was explained. There were two machines. The fighter, in front and diving steeply, was being closely pursued by a second machine which he recognized instantly. It was the new two-seater which they had captured the previous day. In a flash he understood. He realized that Algy, for some reason not apparent, was not flying the big machine, but that he had to come to look for them in the smaller one. The guns of both machines were going, the Lovitznian aiming at the ditch and the front guns of the two-seater blazing at the machine ahead of it.

  This state of affairs did not, however, persist for many seconds, for even if the Lovitznian machine was not being hit, the pilot could not for long remain in ignorance of the fact that he was being attacked. The realization of this must have been as great a shock to him as the appearance of the second machine was to Biggles, but he acted like lightning. In a split second the single-seater was screaming vertically skyward, with the other machine hanging to its tail as if a tow-line connected them.

  By this time the others had also realized that something unexpected had happened, and they all stood up in their uncomfortable refuge to watch, spellbound, the end of the affair.

  Whether the Lovitznian machine had been hit or not they had no means of knowing; it seemed unlikely that it could have escaped scatheless, yet it showed no signs of being disabled. At the top of the zoom the pilot pulled right over on to his back, and then cleverly flicked a half roll to even keel. In this position he had, of course, a very definite advantage over the larger machine on account of his superior height, for the two-seater had not been able to hold the rocket zoom as long as the smaller machine, but he employed this advantage in a rather surprising manner. Instead of attacking his opponent he whirled round and, putting his nose down for maximum speed, roared away in the direction of the hills, over which he swiftly disappeared. Algy started to follow, but Biggles at once leapt into the open, waving furiously a rather dirty handkerchief.

  ‘If he crosses those hills he’s sunk,’ he snapped. ‘He’ll run into the rest of the pack. ‘That cunning devil is trying to lead him into a trap. Ah, thank goodness he’s got the sense to turn back.’

  The two-seater had, in fact, turned, and was now beginning to circle preparatory to landing. Biggles continued to wave, and by every indication he could think of endeavoured to convey the information that the field was safe to land on. Nevertheless, he could well understand Algy’s hesitation, for although the snow was fast disappearing, a thin covering still remained, and there was nothing to show a pilot what lay underneath it.

  Biggles stopped waving as the noise of the two-seater’s engine died away, and its nose dipped as it glided down to land. They all began to run to the point where it would finish its run.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ shouted Biggles to Algy, who was climbing out of his seat as if he intended leaving the machine.

  ‘Why?’ asked Algy, pushing up his goggles.

  ‘There are half a dozen more fighters hanging about somewhere. I fancy the fellow you had a go with has gone to fetch them.’

  ‘Is that so?’ exclaimed Algy, dropping back into his seat.

  ‘There’s no time to talk now,’ went on Biggles swiftly. ‘You get the Count home as fast as you can and then come back for us.’ Biggles turned to the Count. ‘In you go, sir. You’d be wise to sit on the floor,’ he advised, ‘or you may get frost-bitten.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of leaving you here,’ protested the Count.

  ‘Don’t waste time arguing, please,’ said Biggles. ‘Seconds are valuable. It’s far more important that you should get back. We shan’t be long after you, anyway.’

  The Count climbed up into the open cockpit and Biggles gave Algy the signal to take off. ‘We’ll wait for you here,’ he shouted, as he backed away.

  Algy said nothing. He raised his left hand in a parting salute. The engine roared, and Biggles grabbed a wing-tip to help him to turn. There was no wind, so the direction of the take-off was immaterial1 and in a moment the machine was racing, tail up, over the snow, while those on the ground turned their backs to the biting slipstream. They turned again as the machine zoomed into the air, and watched it bank on its course for home. Satisfied that all was well, Biggles then turned towards the farm-house, where several curious spectators were watching.

  They had just reached the stable yard when six Lovitznian fighters roared into sight over the hills. Biggles grabbed Ginger by the arm and dragged him into the shelter of a barn, from where they watched the enemy aircraft anxiously.

  ‘Algy only just got away in time,’ muttered Biggles. ‘I don’t think there is anything to worry about now. These fellows will hardly have the nerve to chase one of our machines right across Maltovia.’

  ‘One of our machines?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘Well, it was carrying Maltovian markings,’ smiled Biggles. ‘Smyth and Carter have evidently been busy. Ah! There they go,’ he added quickly, as the Lovitznian machines turned back towards the hills. ‘Good! I shall feel happier with them out of the way. Come on, let us see if we can beg a crust of bread.’

  He led the way to the veranda where the owner of the house was standing with his wife and several small children. They had some difficulty in making it understood that they were friends and not enemies, but once this was achieved – chiefly by the production of a Maltovian ten-mark note – a pot of tea, eggs, and a dish of bacon were soon forthcoming.

  ‘Algy will have to make two more journeys to get us both back, won’t he?’ asked Ginger, mopping up bacon fat from the dish with a crust of bread.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ answered Biggles. ‘I don’t think so. You and Algy are both fairly light. If fly the machine you should both be able to get in the back seat. It will be a bit of a squeeze, but the machine can carry us all without any difficulty if we can get in.’

  The farmer and his family were staring at them wonderingly, which was not surprising, but as there were no means of making them understand the situation, Biggles could not satisfy their curiosity. The meal finished, he just had time to smoke a cigarette before the two-seater was heard returning.

  ‘Make sure it’s Algy,’ said Ginger cautiously.

  ‘Yes, it’s him all right,’ replied Biggles, as he saw the machine swing round to land, so after thanking their host as well as they were able to, they hurried back to the field.

  It was a tight fit to get two persons into the back seat, but by Ginger lying at full length on the floor, with his legs under the seat, and Algy standing up, it could just be managed. He was, of course, in flying-kit, so the cold would not be likely to trouble him unduly.

  Biggles swung himself up into the pilot’s seat. His hand closed over the throttle; the engine roared as the
machine swung round and, a moment later, was speeding across the snow-covered turf. He did not attempt to climb to any altitude, but at a few hundred feet he levelled out and raced straight back for the aerodrome. There were many things to attend to, and he was anxious to speak to the Count. In twenty minutes by the watch on the instrument board the aerodrome came into view, and it was with real satisfaction that he landed and taxied up the runway into the wood.

  ‘Where the dickens is Smyth?’ he growled, as he jumped clown and Algy joined him. ‘It is not like him to be absent when he is wanted.’

  His voice died away curiously as several Maltovian soldiers ran out from the trees. ‘What the dickens is all this about, I wonder?’ he went on quickly, a suspicion of alarm in his voice. He swung round on his heels as a voice addressed him from behind. An officer stood there, and he was covering them with a revolver. Biggles recognized him at once. It was the thin-lipped aide-de-camp who, with Menkhoff, had accompanied General Bethstein when he had called on them at their hotel. His name, he had learned subsequently, was Vilmsky.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Biggles was really angry.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ replied Vilmsky suavely.

  ‘By whose orders?’

  ‘General Bethstein’s.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Espionage.’

  Biggles nodded slowly. ‘So that’s the game, is it?’ he said softly.

  1 Usually an aircraft will take off or land into the wind.

  Chapter 16

  To Die at Dawn

  ‘IT IS MY duty to warn you that in the event of resistance my orders are to shoot,’ went on Vilmsky imperturbably.

  ‘Is that so? I trust you are always as mindful of your duty,’ sneered Biggles.

  The other scowled but said nothing.