Biggles In France Part 3

'No, you don't!' growled Mahoney, dragging him back. 'You've had your little joke, and now we want an explanation: Joke?' spluttered Biggles. 'Joke, d'you call it?'

'Well, what else was it?' retorted Mahoney. 'Either that or you've gone suddenly mad.

n.o.body but a madman or an idiot would go careering round in a tank smas.h.i.+ng up things and endangering lives. Where in the name of suffering humanity did you get the thing?'

'I didn't get it - it got me! Do you think I wanted the confounded thing?' cried Biggles, exasperated.

Suddenly he threw off Mahoney's restraining hand and barged his way through the crowd towards the group of engineers approaching the tank.

'Hey, corporal!' he yelled. 'What d'you mean by shutting me up in that confounded thing and leaving me?'

'Wasn't my fault, sir,' replied the corporal. 'I was called out of the tank, and no sooner was I outside than you started it off. And the door slammed itself shut, sir: 'Well, there's the very d.i.c.kens to pay now!' said Biggles. 'The confounded thing ran away with me, and the steering went wrong. I've smashed up no end of property, and, to crown it all, I landed right at the feet of one of the big-wigs from Headquarters. You and I will be hearing a lot more about this, corporal, but I'll do my best to make things all right for you. After all, the fault's mine. I shouldn't have been so confoundedly curious and started monkeying about with the controls.

'Now,' he added, 'for goodness' sake buck up and take the peris.h.i.+ng tank away. Sight of it gives me the shudders!'

'You'll shudder some more when the big-wigs have you up on the carpet,* my lad,' said Mahoney, who had been listening to the conversation. 'Take a * Slang: to be reprimanded bit of advice from me, and next time you want a joyride go in something less dangerous!'

Joy-rider exclaimed Biggles. 'Peris.h.i.+ng nightmare, you mean! Anyway,' he added bitterly, pointing, 'I have at least finished the peris.h.i.+ng road for you!'

Where the heap of rubble had been ran a broad, flat track, like a well-made road. No steam-roller could have pressed those brickbats into the soft turf more thoroughly than had that runaway German tank!

BIGGLES GETS A BULL.

For four consecutive days the weather had been bad, and flying was held up. A thick layer of cloud, from which fell a steady drizzle of rain, lay over the trenches - and half Europe, for that matter - blotting out the landscape from the ground and from the air.

It is a well-known fact that when a number of people are thrown together in a confined s.p.a.ce for a considerable period tempers are apt to become short and nerves frayed. Few of the officers of No. 266 Squadron were exceptions to that rule, and the atmosphere in the mess, due to the enforced inactivity, was becoming strained.

There was nothing to do. The gramophone had been played to a standstill, and playing-cards littered the tables, where they had been left by bridge-playing officers who had become tired of playing. One or two fellows were writing letters; the others were either lounging about or staring disconsolately through the window at the sullen, waterlogged aerodrome. The silence which had fallen was suddenly broken by Biggles, who declared his intention of going out.

Are you going crazy, or something?' growled Mahoney, the flight-commander. 'You'll get wet through.'

I can't help that,' retorted Biggles. 'I'm going out. If I don't go out I shall start gibbering like an ape in a cage.'

'You shouldn't find that very difficult,' murmured Mahoney softly.

Biggles glared, but said nothing. He left the room, slipping on his leather flying-coat and helmet in the hall, and opened the front door. Not until then did he realise just how foul the weather was, and he was half-inclined to withdraw his impetuous decision. However, more from a dislike of facing the others again in the ante-room than any other reason, he stepped out and splashed his way to the sheds.

The short walk was sufficient to damp his ardour, and he regarded the weather with increasing disfavour, that became a sort of sullen, impotent rage. It was ridiculous, and he knew it; but he could not help it. After twenty minutes pottering about the sheds he felt more irritable than he did when he had left the mess. He made up his mind suddenly.

'Get my machine out, flight-sergeant,' he snapped shortly.

'But, sir - '

Did you hear what I said?'

'Sorry, sir!'

The machine was wheeled out and started up. Biggles took his goggles from his pocket and automatically put them over his helmet, but not over his eyes, for he knew that the rain would obscure them instantly; then he climbed into his seat.

It's all right, I'm only going visiting,' he told the N.C.O. quietly. 'If anybody wants to know where I am, you can tell them I've gone over to No. 187 Squadron for an hour or two?

'Very good, sir!' Flight-Sergeant Smyth watched him take-off with distinct disapproval.

Biggles found it was much worse in the air than he had expected. That is often the case.

However bad conditions may seem on the ground, they nearly always appear to be far worse in the air. Still, by flying very low and hugging the road, he antic.i.p.ated no difficulty in finding his destination. So, after sweeping back low over the sheds, he struck off in the direction of No. 187 Squadron's aerodrome at an alt.i.tude of rather less than one hundred feet, keeping an eye open for trees or other obstructions ahead.

Before five minutes had pa.s.sed he was repenting his decision to fly, and inside ten minutes he was wondering what madness had come upon him that he should start on such an errand for no reason at all. Twice he overshot a bend in the road and had difficulty in finding it again.

The third time he lost it altogether, and, after tearing up and down with his wheels nearly touching the ground, during which time he stampeded a battery of horse-artillery* and caused a platoon of * Horse-drawn artillery guns.

infantry to throw themselves flat in the mud, he knew that he was utterly and completely lost.

For a quarter of an hour or more he continued his crazy peregrinations, searching for some sign that would give him his bearings, and growing more and more angry, but in vain. Once he nearly collided with a row of poplars, and on another occasion nearly took the chimney-pot off a cottage.

It was the grey silhouette of a church tower that loomed up suddenly and flashed past his wing-tip that decided him to risk no more, but to come down and make inquiries about his position on the ground.

I've had about enough of this!' he grunted as he throttled back and side-slipped down into a pasture. It was a praiseworthy effort to land in such extremely difficult conditions, and would have succeeded but for an unlooked-for but not altogether surprising circ.u.mstance.

Just as the machine was finis.h.i.+ng its run, a dark object appeared in the gloom ahead, which at the last moment he recognized as an animal of the bovine species. Having no desire to run down an unoffending cow both for his own benefit and that of the animal he kicked out his foot and swerved violently too violently.

There was a shuddering jar as the undercarriage clewed off sideways under the unaccustomed strain, and the machine slid to a standstill flat on the bottom of its fuselage, like a toboggan at the end of a run.

'Pretty good!' he muttered savagely, looking around for the cause of the accident, and noting with surprise that the animal had not moved its position.

Rather surprised, he watched it for a moment, wondering what it was doing; then he saw that it was tearing up clods of earth with its front feet, occasionally kneeling down to thrust at the ground with its horns.

An unpleasant sinking feeling took him in the pit of the stomach as he stared, now in alarm, at the ferocious-looking beast which, at that moment, as if to confirm his suspicions, gave vent to a low, savage bellow. He felt himself turn pale as he saw that the creature was a bull, and not one of the pa.s.sive variety, either.

Bull-fighting was not included in his accomplishments. He looked around in panic for some place of retreat, but the only thing he could see was the all-enveloping mist and rain; what lay outside his range of vision, and how far away was the nearest hedge, he had no idea.

Then he remembered reading in a book that the sound of the human voice will quell the most savage beast, and it struck him that the moment was opportune to test the truth of this a.s.sertion. Never did an experiment fail more dismally. Hardly had he opened his lips when the bull, with a vicious snort, charged.

The c.o.c.kpit of an aeroplane is designed to stand many stresses and strains, but a thrust from the horns of an infuriated bull is not one of them. And Biggles knew it. He knew that the flimsy canvas could no more withstand the impending onslaught than an egg could deflect the point of an automatic drill.

Just what the result would be he did not wait to see, for as the bull loomed up like an express train on one side of the machine, he evacuated the plane on the other.

6.

LOST IN THE SKY.

It must be confessed that Biggles disliked physical exertion. In particular he disliked running, a not uncommon thing amongst airmen, who normally judge their speed in miles per minute rather than miles per hour. But on this occasion he covered the ground so fast that the turf seemed to fly under his feet.

Where he was going to he did not know, nor did he pause to speculate. His one idea at that moment was to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the aeroplane, in the shortest s.p.a.ce of time.

The direction he chose might have been worse; on the other hand, it might have been better. Had he gone a little more to the right he would have found it necessary to run a good quarter of a mile before he reached the hedge that bounded the field.

As it was, he only ran a hundred yards before he reached the boundary, which, unfortunately, at that point took the form of a barn by the side of which lay a shallow but extremely slimy pond.

Such was his speed that he only saw the barn, and the first indication he had of the presence of the pond was a clutching sensation around his ankles.

He came up in a panic, striking out madly, thinking that the bull had caught him. But, finding he could stand, for the water was not more than eighteen inches deep, he staggered to his feet and floundered to the far side. Having reached it safely he looked around for the bull, at the same time removing a trailing festoon of water-weed that hung around his neck like a warrior's laurel garland.

The animal was nowhere in sight, so after pondering the scene gloomily for a moment or two while he recovered his breath, Biggles made his way past the barn to a very dirty French farmyard.

There was no one about, so he continued on through a depressed-looking company of pigs and fowls to the farmhouse, which stood on the opposite side of the yard, and knocked on the door.

It was opened almost at once, and, somewhat to his surprise, by a remarkably pretty girl of seventeen or eighteen, who eyed him with astonishment. When he made his predicament known, in halting French, he was invited inside and introduced to her mother, who was busy with a cauldron by the fire.

Within a very short time he was sitting in front of the fire wrapped in an old overcoat, watching his uniform being dried on a clothes-line in front of it, and dipping pieces of new bread into a bowl of soup.

He felt some qualms about his machine, but he did not feel inclined to investigate, for he hesitated to lay himself open to ridicule by telling the others of his encounter with the bovine fury in the meadow.

'This,' he thought, as he stretched his feet towards the fire, 'is just what the doctor ordered! Much better than the mouldy mess!'

How long he would have remained is a matter for conjecture, for the fire was warm and he felt very disinclined to stir, but a sharp rat-tat at the door announced the arrival of what was to furnish the second half of his adventure that day.

Had he been watching the mademoiselle* he would have noted that she blushed slightly; but he was looking towards the door, so it was with distinct astonishment and no small disapproval that he watched the entrance of a very dapper French second-lieutenant, who wore the wings of the French Flying Corps on his breast.

The lieutenant, who was very young, stopped dead when he saw Biggles, while his brow grew dark with anger, and he shot a suspicious glance at mademoiselle, who hastened to explain the circ.u.mstances. The lieutenant, who, it transpired, was mademoiselle's fiance, was mollified, but by no means happy at finding an English aviator in what he regarded as his own particular retreat, and he made it so apparent that Biggles felt slightly embarra.s.sed.

However, they entered into conversation, and it appeared that the Frenchman was also in rather a difficult position. Three days previously he had set * French: miss, girl off from his escadrille* on an unofficial visit to his fiancee and had been caught by the weather.

When the time had come for him to leave, flying was absolutely out of the question, so he had to do what many other officers have had to do in similar circ.u.mstances. He rang up his squadron and told them that he had force-landed, but would return as soon as possible.

But, when the weather did not improve, he had been recalled. So, leaving his machine where he had landed it, which was in a field rather larger than the one Biggles had chosen, he had gone back to his aerodrome by road. Now, as the weather was reported to be improving and likely to clear before nightfall, he had been sent to fetch his machine.

Biggles, in turn, related how he had become lost in the rain and had landed, with disastrous results to his undercarriage.

The lieutenant smiled in a superior way, as if getting lost was something outside the range of his imagination, and then crossed to the window to regard the weather, which was now certainly improving, but was by no means settled.

I will fly you back to your squadron,' he declared.

Biggles started. The idea of being flown by anybody, much less a French second-lieutenant, left him cold, and he said as much.

But, as the afternoon wore on and the lieutenant's frown grew deeper, he began to understand the * French: squadron.

position. The Frenchman, who was evidently of a jealous disposition, was loath to leave him there with his best girl, yet he the Frenchman was due back at his squadron, and further delay might get him into trouble.

So, rather than cause any possible friction between the lovers, Biggles began seriously to contemplate the lieutenant's suggestion.

The weather was still dull, with low clouds scudding across the sky at a height of only two or three hundred feet. But it had stopped raining, and light patches in the clouds showed where they were thin enough for an aeroplane to get through.

In any case, Biggles knew that he would soon have to let Major Mullen, his commanding officer, know where he was, so, finally against his better judgment, he accepted the lieutenant's invitation to the Frenchman's relief.

He thanked his hostesses for their hospitality, donned his uniform, and accompanied the pilot to a rather dilapidated Breguet plane, which stood dripping moisture in the corner of a field on the opposite side of the house from where he had left his Camel.

When his eyes fell on it he at once regretted his decision, but there was no going back.

More than ever did he regret leaving the comfortable fireside as the Frenchman took off, with a stone-cold engine, in a steep climbing turn. A minute later they were swallowed up in the grey pall.

The period immediately following was a nightmare that Biggles could never afterwards recall without a shudder, for the Frenchman, quite lightheartedly, seemed to take every possible risk that presented itself. Finally, he staggered up through the clouds, levelled out above them, and set off on a course that Biggles was quite certain would never take them to Maranique.

'Hi, you're going too far east!' he yelled in the pilot's ear.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively.

'Who flies? Me or you?' he roared.

Biggles' lips set in a straight line.

'This isn't going to be funny!' he muttered. 'This fool will unload me the wrong side of the Lines if I don't watch him!' He could see the lieutenant's lips moving; he was evidently singing to himself, as he flew, with the utmost unconcern.

Biggles' lips also moved, but he was not singing. 'Hi,' he shouted again presently, 'where the d.i.c.kens are you going?'

The Frenchman looked surprised and pained.

'Maranique, you said, did you not?' he shouted.

'Yes. But it's that way!' cried Biggles desperately, pointing to the north-west.

'No - no!' declared the Frenchman emphatically.

Biggles felt like striking him, but that course was inadvisable as there was no dual control-stick in his c.o.c.kpit. So all he could do was to sit still and fume, deploring the folly that had led him into such a fix.

Meanwhile, the Frenchman continued to explore the sky in all directions, until even Biggles had not the remotest idea of their position.

'We only need to barge into a Hun; he thought, and that'll be the end! I'll choke this blighter when I get him on the ground!'

The lieutenant, who evidently had his own methods of navigation, suddenly throttled back, and, turning with a smile, pointed downwards.

'Maranique!' he called cheerfully.

'Maranique, my foot!' growled Biggles, knowing quite well that they could not be within twenty miles of it.

The Frenchman, without any more ado, plunged downwards into the grey cloud.

Biggles turned white and clutched at the sides of the c.o.c.kpit, prepared for the worst.

There was no altimeter in his c.o.c.kpit, and he fully expected the Frenchman to dive straight into the ground at any second. To his infinite relief, not to say astonishment, they came out at about two hundred feet over an aerodrome.

It was not Maranique. But Biggles did not mind that. He was prepared to land anywhere, and be thankful for the opportunity, even if it meant walking home. The Frenchman's idea of flying, he decided, was not his.