'Quite. That's why I've come here. The d.i.c.kens of it is, I've got no right to tell you what I shall have to tell you. You know without my telling you that the one thing that really matters in espionage is secrecy. If one of my agents happened to walk in here at this minute he wouldn't recognize me.'

'Must you tell us-this secret?'

It wouldn't be fair to ask you to do the job without telling you the precise facts.'

Biggles shrugged his shoulders slightly. 'You know best, sir.'

The major leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'If any one here even mentions one word of what I am going to say he might be responsible for the death of thousands of our troops.'

Biggles looked grave. 'I'd rather not know anything about it,' he muttered in a worried tone.

The major made a gesture of helplessness. 'I must tell you,' he said again, as if he hated the idea. 'Listen. You know the village of Belville-sur-Somme? It's on the other side of the lines now; the Huns took it from us in their big push last autumn.'

I know it,' Biggles nodded. 'Our artillery has knocked the village about, but by a curious fluke the church tower hasn't been touched.'

'That is not a fluke.'

'No?'

'No. Knowing that we should lose the village, some alterations were made in that church tower last year. It's a square tower, you remember. One wall of it is hollow. We've a man stationed in it.'

Biggles's eyes opened wide, but he said nothing. 'Yes,' continued the major; 'he sits up there all day, in the centre of the enemy's position-telling us everything. Or rather, he did tell us until yesterday.' Ah! They've got him?'

'No. We laid an underground telegraph. The transmitter at his end has gone wrong; a part has burnt out. He needs a spare.'

And somebody has got to take it to him?' put in Biggles evenly.

'Precisely.'

'Have you lost touch with him?'

Of course. We lost touch the moment his instrument broke down.'

'Then how did you know it had broken down?' 'He had a pigeon-just one, for emergency.' 'Pity; he should have had more.'

'No. They would have cooed, and perhaps given him away. A cooing pigeon has been the death signal for more than one agent.'

'The job's urgent?'

every hour's delay is costing us men. Having had the man there, we are blind without him.'

'This sounds like a one-man job,' observed Biggles gravely.

'Yes.'

'How will the one who goes be able to identify the chap at the other end?'

easily. He's the village padre-a priest-Father Dupont. The difficulty will be to get to him without being questioned. If you went and were questioned-well, it would be all over, since I believe I am right in saying that you do not speak German fluently?'

I do,' declared Thirty. 'I've lived in Germany.'

'By Jove! I didn't know that,' said the major tersely.

I'll go,' offered Thirty. 'I stand the best chance of anybody of getting through.'

Biggles looked at him with serious, thoughtful eyes. 'No one can deny that,' he said slowly. 'You know what will happen if you're-'

If I'm caught? Of course. It can't be helped. Some one will have to take the risk.'

'That's the only way of looking at it,' murmured the major.

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small oblong package. 'Here's the thing,' he said, pa.s.sing it to Thirty. 'There is no need for me to say any more. We shall soon know if our man gets it. Whatever happens, don't give him away. I'll leave the rest to you.

Good luck.' The major rose and held out his hand to Thirty. Then, without another word, he went.

It looks to me as if we started more than we bargained for when we started this rescue business,' observed Biggles, sadly. 'How are you proposing to handle this, Thirty?'

I think the safest plan would be to go over at night; there would be less chance of being seen in the dark. I'll land at aerodrome C, which I reckon is only a few. miles behind Belville, taking an old macintosh with me to cover up my uniform. If Rip comes with me he can fly the machine home as soon as he has put me on the ground-unless he cares to wait. Maybe it would be better to go, and come back the next morning early; or if I'm not back, the next day.'

I'll wait,' declared Rip firmly.

Biggles shook his head. 'I don't like it,' he muttered.

I can't say that I'm enthusiastic about it myself, but we couldn't very well refuse to go,' admitted Thirty. 'When are you going?' asked Algy.

'Might as well go to-night,' answered Thirty. 'You heard what Major Raymond said about urgency.'

'And you'll wait for him, Rip?' questioned Biggles. 'Yes.'

It's a fair step from aerodrome C to Belville,' Biggles pointed out. 'I think you'd better compromise. Give him, say, four hours. If he isn't back by then, come home, and then we'll all go over every morning until we do get him. All sorts of contingencies might arise. He may be delayed. Somebody might come along while you are waiting. But there is this about it-we all know where he is and what he is doing; provided he doesn't run into trouble, it would only be a question of time before we picked him up. It's difficult to work to a fixed time. What do you think, Thirty?'

I agree. Let Rip wait for a time by all means, so long as everything is quiet. But it might suit me better if I knew that if I was hung up he'd go home.'

'Then there seems to be nothing else to discuss,' said Biggles, getting up from the table. '

Let's go and have a look over the Bristol. You might take a packet of food to hide in the hedge. By the way, if any one else turns up-prisoners, I mean-they'll have to wait until this show is finished. We can't do half a dozen things at once.'

After that they went up to the sheds and spent the remainder of the day doing such jobs as were likely to be useful, occasionally discussing minor details of the mission. Twilight fell while they were at dinner, and as soon as the meal was over Thirty and Rip collected their kit and, accompanied by Biggles and Algy, who came to see them off, made their way slowly to the sheds. All the pilots of 266 squadron were home, and their machines put away for the night. Only the dark-painted Bristol stood on the tarmac. They hung about until it got properly dark, when Thirty made preparations for departure.

I ought to be doing this job, you know,' Biggles told him, with a worried frown.

'You'd probably do the flying part better than I shall, but what you'd gain by that you'd lose by not being able to speak German sufficiently well to pa.s.s for a native,' returned Thirty. 'You ready, Rip?'

The small parcel of food was put into the rear c.o.c.kpit, and Thirty and Rip climbed into their seats.

'You know the colour of the night?' asked Biggles.

'Yes.'

'Cheerio, then. Remember, if anything goes wrong, don't leave aerodrome C. That's where we will look for you.'

Rip nodded, waved his hand, and switched on, for Algy was waiting by the propeller.

The engine started. Algy pulled the chocks away and the machine moved forward into the darkness. A moment later it was in the air, heading for its objective.

Thirty climbed fairly high before crossing the lines, for he was particularly anxious to avoid the searchlights. It seemed to him that there were more than usual, and they flashed in a peculiar way. Then he saw the reason. Lightning was flashing across the sky in several places, and he experienced a pang of uneasiness; a thunderstorm was something he had not taken into his calculations, but it did not occur to him to turn back. Which is not to say that he would not have done so had he known that less than twenty miles away huts were being uprooted and hangars blown flat by the violence of the tempest. He eased the stick forward a little and raced on, aware that his compa.s.s was behaving oddly, although he was not altogether surprised, for he was well aware of the influence a magnetic storm can have on delicate instruments.

Thirty reckoned that he was still about ten miles from aerodrome C when the first spot of rain lashed his face. The sky had turned black, with no sign of a star; there were no more searchlights, but at frequent intervals the heavens were lacerated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed up the earth clearly, enabling him more than once to identify a landmark. He was worried, but still it did not occur to him to return with his mission unfulfilled. A prolonged flash showed him the landing-field, so he throttled back and glided down towards it, more than a little thankful that the storm had not yet broken; indeed, he had begun to hope that it would pa.s.s over.

He was now very low, straining his eyes down into the gloom below, holding the machine off as long as he dared, hoping for another flash of lightning to show him the way in. Instead, the storm broke. In an instant he was fighting his way through blinding rain.

He ought to have turned back. He knew that he was taking a terrible risk, but an obstinate streak in him made him persist in his landing. He could just see the ground and the black shadows which he knew were trees. Pa.s.sing between two trees, he flattened out, confident that he was down safely. Just as the wheels touched, the lightning flashed and the world was flooded with a brilliant blue light.

It showed Thirty everything about him, but he was only concerned with two of the objects he saw. Ten yards in front of the b.u.mping machine stood a man with his arms outstretched. A little farther on loomed a thick-set hedge.

For the next second, which to Thirty seemed like eternity, he did not think. His brain seemed to have become paralysed. It made no difference. It was too late to do anything.

His only real thought, and this was subconscious, was that he had come down in the wrong field. There was a violent crash as the lurching machine struck the figure.

Instinctively, knowing that he was going to crash, Thirty flicked off the ignition to prevent fire. There was a rending, grinding crash as the Bristol bored into the hedge.

Then, suddenly, silence-silence broken only by the teeming rain and the intermittent roll of thunder.

For a split second Thirty sat still, stunned by the calamity. Then, recovering himself with a rush, he undid his safety belt, flung it off, and turned to Rip.

'Well, here we are,' said Rip, coolly.

I know it,' snapped Thirty. 'I wish we weren't.

What are we going to do? Heavens! Did you ever see such rain in your life?'

'What about that poor devil you knocked over?' shouted Rip, above the tearing wind which now struck the wrecked machine like a tornado.

Thirty did not answer. He jumped down and fought his way through the storm to where the figure lay motionless.

Rip joined him. 'You've killed him,' he yelled.

Thirty knelt, his hands groping. Then he sprang to his feet, laughing hysterically. 'It's a scarecrow,' he cried. 'We're in the wrong field.'

The wind became a thousand shrieking demons clutching at them, slashing the rain into their faces, making it difficult for them to keep their feet.

'We would choose a night like this,' yelled Thirty bitterly in Rip's ear.

'What are you going to do? We can't stand out here like a pair of fools in this rain,' cried Rip, wildly.

Thirty, crouching low, made his way back to the machine. He grabbed Rip's arm. 'Get that grub out,' he shouted.

'Why?'

I'm going' to set fire to her. She'll be seen a mile off when it gets light. If I burn her there'll be nothing left to see. Now's the time. Every one will be indoors, and the fire won't be seen for a hundred yards, anyway, in this perishing rain.'

Rip climbed into the wreck and dragged out the parcel of food. Thirty managed to find his Very pistol in the torn c.o.c.kpit. 'Stand back,' he yelled, and sent the flaming charge into the Bristol's main tank. Then he hurled the pistol into the leaping flames that gushed out, and ran down the hedge to get clear of the bullets that he knew would start flying in all directions as soon as the flames reached the ammunition.

Satisfied that they were in a safe place, he stopped. 'There is only one thing to do,' he told Rip.

'What's that?'

'You get across to the proper landing-field. It's just over there, to the right. Wait for Biggles. He'll guess that the storm has jiggered us. If he comes before I'm back tell him what happened.'

'Before you're back . . . what are you going to do?' I'm going on to find the padre.'

'What-in your uniform? You're mad. Great Scott! Where's the macintosh you were going to wear? Did you bring one?'

Thirty staggered. His hand went to his brow. 'My G.o.d! I left it in the machine,' he choked. 'Quick!' He spun round.

But it was too late. Already the ill-fated Bristol was enveloped in flames from end to end.

Helpless, they stood on the outskirts of the ruddy glow of the flames and watched it burn.

Cartridges began exploding and forced them to take cover again.

I must be crazy,' groaned Thirty. 'What on earth could I have been thinking about to do a fool thing like that?'

'You were upset by the crash, I expect.'

'Yes, I must have been. But what am I going to do? I can't walk about the roads like this and hope to get away with it. By gosh! I've got it. The scarecrow!'

Risking the bullets, Thirty tore across to where the dummy figure lay. 'A peasant's old blue blouse-the very thing!' he cried exultantly, and started dragging the scarecrow towards the hedge. Reaching it, he dragged off his flying-kit and then donned the one whole garment that comprised the scarecrow's attire, a loose blue calico blouse of the sort that is commonly worn by the working cla.s.ses in France and Belgium.

It was, of course, saturated, but he was already so wet that it made little difference.

'Got the box of tricks you've got to hand over to the padre?' questioned Rip, anxiously.

'Yes-in my pocket. I'm off now. I've wasted too much time here already. You find your way to the northern hedge of the landing-field and wait.'

I'd rather come with you.'

'We haven't two blouses, so it's no use talking about that,' answered Thirty, shortly. 'I hope I'll be back about dawn.'

Rip held out his hand. He seemed to be choking.

'Goodbye, Thirty,' he said huskily. 'Be careful.'

I will,' Thirty a.s.sured him. 'Remember the motto.' 'What . . . ?'

'Thick and thin.'

'Thick and thin,' echoed Rip hoa.r.s.ely.