Biggles by John Pearson Page A

which made his observer’s task any easier. But Way was meticulous, and as the lumbering aircraft flew across Vanfleur at little more than 1,000 feet, he had a great deal to record. The sidings of the goods yard were full of flat trucks, each with a German field gun plainly visible. Shell were being loaded further on, and there were stores and motor vehicles, whilst outside the little town were row on row of tents for troops that would reinforce the big attack.
    In those days before aerial photography much depended on the accuracy of the observer, and it was clearly urgent to get detailed news of this big German build-up back to the Allied High Command. So whilst Biggles’ instincts were to get out of Vanfleur now as speedily as possible (and how he wished he’d had a bomb or two to drop on the ammunition dump outside the station), Way was insisting on a further flight across the town just to make sure that he had everything recorded on his note-pad. Biggles reluctantly agreed and, bringing the aircraft almost down to rooftop level now, started the return journey over the town.
    This time all hell broke loose, not only from aircraft guns, but also from German soldiers in the streets, who took pot shots with their rifles at the aircraft with the unmistakeable red, white and blue roundels on its wings. Miraculously, she came through unscathed — apart from some tell-tale bullet-holes around the cockpit, and shrapnel gashes in the wings — and Biggles decidedthey had tempted providence enough for one wet afternoon and that it was time for home.
    Easier said than done. As he began to put the aircraft into a slow climb and turn her nose south-west, the German guns below fell silent, and suddenly he saw the reason. Out in the clearing sky that lay between the F.E.2 and home were twelve black dots which, even as they watched, grew larger. German Albatrosses! Against such opposition Biggles’ F.E.2 had as much chance of surviving as a cow faced with a pack of hungry lions.
    But he still possessed one lingering advantage — the blanket of low grey cloud that stretched north of Vanfleur to the Belgian coast. If they could reach it, there was still a chance of giving the faster German planes the slip.
    For the next few minutes it was touch and go, with Biggles speeding for the cloud-bank at full throttle, and the German triplanes closing in. Biggles could see by now the Squadron numbers on the fuselage of the leading aircraft, and then, suddenly, they were in the cloud. It was like flying straight into a dense grey fog, an eerie, silent world in which the German planes could never hope to find them.
    There was no question now of flying south towards St Omer, for their best hope of dodging their pursuers still lay in the protection of this interminable bank of cloud. So, Biggles flew north-west by his compass, hoping in the end to reach the Belgian coast, then follow it down towards Dunkirk and home.
    At first it seemed as if this plan would work. The German aircraft had no hope of finding them, and after studying his map and calculating distance from his flying time, Biggles decided they would soon be over the Belgian coast, and cautiously brought the aircraft down below the level of the cloud.
    â€˜Great!’ shouted Way as they reached clear air beneath the cloud-bank, for there on the horizon lay the sea with a pale blue sky beyond. Biggles gently eased the aircraft to the left and started the slow journey back to Base. Two things were worrying him by now. The first was his petrol level. The F.E.2’s maximum endurance was three hours, and they had already been airborne more than half of this. The second worry was an enemy patrol. In this clear sky by the coast the F.E.2 would have no hiding place.
    For twenty minutes all seemed well. The pale blue winter sky began to darken with the approach of evening, and Biggles keptthe aircraft’s nose along the white line of the breaking surf beneath,