It was nearly dark when they touched their wheels on the soaking turf near the edge of the aerodrome. In fact, they were rather too near, for the machine finished its run with its nose in a ditch and its tail c.o.c.ked high in the air.

Biggles evacuated the machine almost as quickly as he had left his own Camel plane when the bull had charged, and, once clear, surveyed the wreck dispa.s.sionately.

'Thank goodness he did it, and not me!' was his mental note.

His attention was suddenly attracted by the curious antics of the Frenchman, who, with a cry of horror, had leapt to the ground and was fumbling with a pistol.

For a moment Biggles did not understand, and thought the wretched fellow was going to shoot himself, out of remorse. But then Biggles saw that he was mistaken.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

Voila!*' The lieutenant pointed, and, following the outstretched finger, Biggles turned ice-cold with shock. Dimly through the darkening mist, not a hundred yards away, stood an aeroplane.

It did not need a large cross on the side of its fuselage to establish its ident.i.ty. The machine, beyond all doubt and question, was a German Rumpler** plane!

Biggles turned to the wretched Frenchman in savage fury.

'You blithering lunatic!' he snarled. 'I told you you * French: There!

** German two-seater biplane for observation and light bombing raids.

were too far to the east. Look where you've landed us!'

The lieutenant paid no attention, for he was busy performing the last rites over his machine. He raised the pistol, and at point blank range sent a shot into the petrol-tank.

Instantly the machine was a blazing inferno.

Then, side by side, they ran for their lives. They heard shouts behind them, but they did not stop.

They ran until they reached a wood, into which they plunged, panting for breath, and then paused to consider the position, which was just about as unpleasant as it could be.

The place was dripping with moisture, and Biggles' teeth were chattering, for his uniform was by no means dry when he had put it on at the farmhouse.

But there was nothing, apparently, that they could do, so they pressed on into the heart of the wood, where they crouched until it was dark, hardly speaking a word, with Biggles furious and the Frenchman 'desolated' almost to the point of suicide.

Then, with one accord, they crept from their hiding-place towards the edge of the wood, coming out in a narrow, deserted lane.

Suddenly the Frenchman clutched Biggles' his eyes blazing.

'The Rumpler!' he hissed. 'We will take the Rumpler, and I will yet fly you back to Maranique!'

Biggles started, for the idea had not occurred to him, and he eyed his companion with a new respect and admiration. He had no intention of letting the Frenchman fly him to Maranique - or anywhere else -but if they could manage to get control of that machine they might yet escape, and even reach home that night. It was a project that many prisoners of war, and flying officers at large in hostile territory, dreamt of.

'Come on! We'll try, anyway!' Biggles said crisply, and set off in the direction of the aerodrome. It was nervy work, and more than once they had to crouch shivering in the bottom of a ditch, or in soaking undergrowth, While bodies of men moved towards the Lines, or backward to the rest camps. As it so happened, none came anywhere near them.

With the stealth of Red Indians on the warpath, they crept towards their objective. In his heart Biggles felt certain that by this time the machine would have been put in a hangar, from which it would be impossible to extract it without attracting attention. If that was so, it was the end of the matter.

As they slowly neared the spot where they had last seen the German machine a low murmur of voices reached them from the direction of the Frenchman's crashed Breguet, and once Biggles thought he heard a laugh. The crash, it seemed, was amusing.

Well, maybe he would have laughed had the situation been reversed. But as it was, there was little enough to raise a smile as far as they were concerned.

Hoping all the officers of the German squadron had collected round the crash, they made a wide detour to avoid it, and presently came upon the Rumpler almost in the same position as they had last seen it.

Someone had moved it slightly nearer the sheds -that was all. What was even more important, not a soul was in sight.

Now that the moment for action had arrived, Biggles felt curiously calm; the Frenchman, on the other hand, was panting with excitement.

'You start the prop; I will open the throttle!' he breathed.

'Not on your life!' declared Biggles. 'I'll do the pouring. I've done all the flying I'm going to with you. You make for the prop when I say the word "go".

The Frenchman was inclined to argue, but Biggles clenched his fists, with the desired result, so he took a final look round and crouched for the spring.

'Go!' he snapped.

Together they burst from cover and dashed towards the solitary machine. Biggles, as arranged, made for the c.o.c.kpit, while the French lieutenant tore round the wing to the prop. Even as he put his foot into the stirrup to climb up Biggles staggered backwards; his heart seemed to stop beating. A head had appeared above the rim of the c.o.c.kpit. He stared, but there was no doubt about it - a man was sitting in the machine. The French pilot saw him, too, for a groan burst from his lips.

Then a voice spoke. It was not so much what the man said, or the tone of voice he employed, that struck Biggles all of a heap. It was the language he used. It was English - perfect English.

'What the d.i.c.kens do you two fellows think you're going to do?' he said as he stood up and then jumped to the ground.

Biggles' jaw sagged as he stared at an officer in the Royal Flying Corps uniform. 'Who - who are you?' he gasped.

'Lynsdale's my name - No. 281 Squadron. Why?' Biggles began to shake.

'Who does this kite belong to?' he asked, pointing to the Rumpler.

'Me. At least, I reckon it's mine. I forced it to land this morning, and we towed it in this afternoon: 'What aerodrome is this?' Biggles queried shakily.

'St. Marie Fleur. No. 281 Squadron moved in about a week ago. As a matter of fact, we'

ve only got one Flight here so far, but the others are expected any day. By the way,'

Lynsdale went on, turning to the Frenchman, 'are you by any chance the johnnie who landed here about an hour ago and set fire to his kite?'

But the Frenchman was not listening. He had burst into tears and was sitting on the wheel of the Rumpler, sobbing.

'Never mind, cheer up, old chap!' said Biggles kindly. 'There's plenty more where that one came from, and we're better off than we thought we were, anyway.'

'You'd both better come up to the mess and have some grub, while I ring up your people and tell them you're here!' observed Lynsdale, trying hard not to laugh.

7.

THE HUMAN RAILWAY.

One of the most characteristic features of flying during the Great War was the manner in which humour and tragedy so often went hand in hand. At noon a practical joke might set the officers' mess rocking with mirth; by sunset, or perhaps within the hour, the perpetrator of it would be gone for ever, fallen to an unmarked grave in the sh.e.l.lholes of No Man's Land.

Laughter, spontaneous and unaffected, with Old Man Death watching, waiting, ever ready to strike.

Those whose task it was to clear the sky of enemy aircraft knew it, but it did not worry them. They seldom alluded to it. When it thrust itself upon their notice they forgot it as quickly as they could. It was the only way.

That att.i.tude in mind, that philosophy of life in warfare, was aptly instanced by the events of a certain summer day in the history of No. 266 Squadron.

The day was hot. The morning patrol had just returned, and the officers of 266 Squadron were lounging languidly in the ante-room, with cooling drinks at their elbows. Maclaren, who had led the patrol, his flying suit thrown open down the front, exposing the blue silk pyjamas in which he had been flying, leaned against the mantelpiece, a foaming jug in his right hand. He was using his left to demonstrate the tactics of the Hun who had so nearly got him, and he punctuated his narrative by taking mighty draughts of the contents of the jug, which he himself had concocted.

'He turned, and I turned,' he continued, 'and I had him stone cold in my sights. I grabbed for my gun lever' his forehead wrinkled into a grimace of disgust 'and my guns packed up. Well, it wasn't their fault,' he continued disconsolately, 'there was nothing in '

em! It was the first time in my life that I've run out of ammunition without knowing it!

'Luckily for me, the Hun had had enough and pushed off, or I shouldn't be here now. He'

s probably still wondering why I didn't go after him. I don't suppose he'll ever know how mighty thankful I was to see him go, and I don't mind telling you I wasted no time in getting home. It was a red machine an Albatross so it may have been Richthofen himself. He certainly could fly.

A dozen times I thought I'd got him, but before I could shoot he'd gone out of my sights.

Two or three times while I was looking for him he had a crack at me. I've got an idea I've been rather lucky. I '

He broke off, and all eyes turned towards the swing-doors that led into the dining-room as they were pushed open and a stranger entered.

He did not enter as one would expect a new officer joining a squadron to enter. There was nothing deferential or even in the slightest degree respectful about his manner.

Indeed, so unusual was his method of entry upon the scene that the amazed occupants of the room could only stare wonderingly. Actually, what he did was to fling the doors open wide, and, holding them open with outstretched arms, cry in a shrill c.o.c.kney voice: '

Pa.s.sing Down Street and Hyde Park Corner!' He then emitted a series of sounds that formed an excellent imitation of a Tube train starting, punctuated with the usual clanging of doors.

The rumble of the departing 'train' died away and the stranger advanced smiling into the room. Halfway across it he stopped, waved his handkerchief like a guard's flag, whistled shrilly, and called: 'Any more for Esher, Walton, Weybridge, Byfleet or Woking?'

Then he sat down at a card table opposite Biggles. But the performance was not yet finished, as the spellbound watchers were to discover.

'Two to Waterloo!' he cried sharply. He followed this instantly by bringing down his elbow sharply on the table, at the same time letting his fist fall forward so that his knuckles also struck the table. The noise produced, which can only be described as '

clonk, clonk-er, clonk, clonk-er', was precisely the sound made in a railway booking-office used for punching the date on tickets issued.

Having completed these items from his repertoire, he sat back with a smile and awaited the applause he evidently expected. There was, in fact, a general t.i.tter, for the imitations had been excellent and admirably executed.

Biggles, whose nerves were a bit on edge, did not join in, however. He was tired, and the sudden disturbance irritated him. He merely stared at the round, laughing face in front of him with faint surprise and disapproval.

'What do you think you are - a railway?' he asked coldly.

The other nodded.

I'm not always a railway, though. Sometimes I'm an aeroplane,' he observed seriously.

Is that so?' replied the astonished Biggles slowly. Another t.i.tter ran round the room, and the stranger rose.

'Yes,' he said. 'Sometimes I'm a Camel.'

A Camel!' gasped Biggles incredulously.

The other nodded.

I can do any sort of aeroplane I like, with any number of engines, but I like being a Camel best. Watch me!' Forthwith he gave a brilliant sound imitation of a Camel being started up.

With vibrating lips producing the hum of a rotary engine, he ran round the room with his arms -which were evidently intended to be the planes of the machine - outstretched.

He 'landed' neatly in an open s.p.a.ce, and then 'taxied' realistically back to his seat.

As the 'engines' backfired and then died away with a final swish-swoosh, there was a shout of laughter, in which Biggles was compelled to join.

'Pretty good!' he admitted. 'What's your name, by the way?'

'Forbes, Clarence. Born 1894. Occupation, invent - '

All right. Cut out the rough stuff,' interrupted Biggles. 'You won't mind my saying that it is my considered opinion that you are slightly off your rocker!'

The other raised his eyebrows.

'Slightly! My dear young sir,' he protested, 'you do me less than justice. Most people are firmly convinced that I am absolutely barmy. They call me the Mad Hatter.'

'They're probably right!' admitted Biggles. 'We shall probably think the same when we know you better. Did you say you were an inventor?'

Forbes nodded.

'Sh!' he whispered, glancing around with mock furtiveness. 'Spies may be listening.

Presently I will show you some of the inventions I have produced in readiness for my debut in a service squadron.'

Biggles started.

'Don't you start messing about with our machines!' he said, frowning.

Forbes looked pained.

I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing!' he declared. 'But wait until you have seen - '

Is Mr Forbes here, please?' called a mess waiter from the door.

Forbes looked round.

'Yes, what is it?' he asked.

'The C.O. wants to see you in the office, sir!'