Faked Passports (3 page)

The problem was how to overcome the pilot. Had both Gregory's arms been sound he would have flung over Charlton's head the rug in which his own legs were wrapped and pulled him backwards out of his seat. One flick of the controls would be enough to turn the plane's steering gear over to “George”, the gyroscopic mechanism which would keep the machine steady while he tied Charlton up. But, wounded as he was, Gregory knew that such a plan was quite impracticable; he hadn't the strength to overcome the airman. The only alternative was to knock Charlton out: a rotten thing to have to do, but once Gregory had made up his mind about a course of action he never allowed sentiment to deter him from his purpose.

Stooping down he began to grope about at his feet in the hope of finding some object with which he could hit the unsuspecting pilot over the back of the head.

Charlton must have sensed something of what had been going on in Gregory's mind. He turned suddenly and said:

“What're you up to?”

“Nothing,” muttered Gregory, who, having failed to find on the floor of the plane any object which he might use as a weapon, had pushed back the rug and begun to unlace one of his shoes with the idea of using that. He did not wish to hurt the airman more than necessary and reckoned that a good blow with the heel would be sufficient to stun him temporarily without cutting open his head.

Charlton appeared satisfied but a moment later he swung round again. Gregory had his shoe off and was holding it by the toe, in his right hand, ready to aim his blow.

“Now, look here,” Charlton snapped, “no funny business! If you're thinking of trying to land me one with that shoe and taking over the plane you'd better think again. You've got only one good arm and I've got two. What's more, I've got a spanner here. I'm afraid you're so overwrought that you're near as dammit off your rocker; otherwise you'd never contemplate sending us both crashing to our death. If you make one move towards me or the controls of this plane I'll have to knock you senseless!”

The two men stared angrily at each other. Charlton had his jaw thrust out and evidently meant every word he said. Gregory's eyes were narrowed and the white scar of an old
wound which caught up his left eyebrow, giving him a slightly Satanic appearance, showed a livid white.

The airman was wondering if it would not be wisest, without further argument, to knock out this maniac who threatened to jeopardise both their lives, and his right hand was already groping for the heavy spanner which lay beside his bucket seat. The lean, sinewy soldier of fortune was coolly assessing his chances in an open attack. They would be much less than if he could have taken the airman by surprise, as at the moment he was very much the weaker of the two; but he believed that he could rely upon his greater experience in scrapping, and the utter ruthlessness with which he always acted if once compelled to enter any fight, to get in one good blow on Charlton's temple before the airman could overpower him.

“If you get hurt you've brought it on yourself,” Gregory muttered, glad now to have been relieved from the repugnant act of striking from behind a man whom he would normally have counted a friend.

“For God's sake …!” Charlton exclaimed. He was furious with Gregory for placing him in such a situation. Although he had switched the plane's controls over to the gyroscopes he realised the hideous danger of a fight in mid-air which might even temporarily incapacitate him and he was more than a little scared by the gleam in Gregory's eyes.

Suddenly the tension was broken. The steady hum of the engine was abruptly shattered by a sharp report and Gregory saw the livid flash that stabbed the darkness a little ahead of them to their right.

“Hell!” Charlton gasped, swinging round to the controls. “They're on to us!”

As the plane dived steeply another flash appeared away to their left—a third—a fourth. Each was accompanied by a sharp report like the crack of a whip. A German anti-aircraft battery had the plane taped through its sound range-finder and was putting up a barrage all round it; some of the shells exploded like Roman Candles, sending out strings of ‘Flaming Onions'. At the sound of the first bang Gregory stuffed his shoe in the pocket of his greatcoat and flung himself backwards, pushing out his feet to support himself as they hurtled downwards.

The bursting shells were now far above them but as the plane rushed towards the earth the pilot and his passenger could see that they were over another large break in the cloud-bank. Pinpoints of light showed far away in the darkness below while a
little in front the blackness was stabbed repeatedly by bright flashes from the guns of the anti-aircraft battery. They seemed to make its position an almost continuous pool of light, like a baleful furnace flickering unevenly in the surrounding gloom.

Charlton suddenly checked the plane and zoomed up again. The strain was terrific. Gregory was almost shot out of his seat. His heart seemed to leap up into his throat. Now the Germans had got their searchlights going and bright pencils of coloured light cut the sky here and there, sweeping swiftly from side to side in search of the plane.

The machine was on an even keel again, heading southward, and the groups of shell-bursts were well away to their left. For a moment it seemed as though they had got away but, without warning, one of the searchlights, coming up from behind, caught the plane, lighting the roof of the cabin as it passed with the brightness of full day. In a second they had flashed out of it. Charlton banked steeply to the west but two seconds later it was back on to them again. The other beams swung together as though operated by a single hand; the plane was trapped in their blinding glare. The guns of the battery altered their range and sent up another broadside of shells which burst immediately below the aircraft, rocking it from side to side with the violence of a cockle-shell in a tempest.

Getting it into control once more Charlton dived and twisted in a frantic endeavour to get free. Gregory was flung first to one side and then to another; but the searchlights clung to them and, in the fractional intervals between the reports of the bursting shells, there was thud after thud as steel fragments and shrapnel tore the fuselage.

Suddenly the engine stuttered and gave out.

“They've got us!” Gregory cried.

“A piece has penetrated the magneto-box—or else the petrol leads have been torn away!” Charlton yelled above the din.

The plane began to plunge. Charlton managed to right it and for a moment the “Archies” continued to scatter shells all round them. One piece of metal smashed a window but the searchlights still held them and the gunners, seeing that they were now coming down, ceased fire.

In a strange silence which seemed unnatural after the roar of the guns and shells the machine rapidly lost height. The pinpoints of light below and the dark land, which they sensed rather than saw, seemed to be rushing up to meet them. The further lights disappeared and Charlton flattened out. For a
minute both men held their breath in frightful suspense, knowing that they might be dead before they could count a hundred. There was a terrific bump; the sound of tearing metal. The cabin floor lifted beneath their feet and the whole plane turned right over.

Gregory's head hit the roof of the cabin with a frightful crack and he was temporarily half-dazed by the blow. Scrambling to his knees he crouched in the dip of the upturned roof, swaying his aching head from side to side, until he heard Charlton yelling at him.

The airman had kicked out the fragments of the shattered window and scrambled through it. He turned now and was grabbing at Gregory's shoulders. With an effort Gregory stumbled up, pulled on his shoe, and, aided by Charlton, wriggled out of the wrecked plane. In the struggle they fell together in a heap and rolled a few yards down the slope upon which the plane had come to grief.

When they had checked themselves and blundered, panting, to their feet Charlton was swearing profusely; but Gregory was laughing—laughing like hell—positively rocking with Satanic glee.

“So you had to land me after all, damn you!” he gasped. “And by refusing to turn round when I asked you, you've ditched yourself into the bargain.”

“You fool!” snarled Charlton. “You suicidal maniac! We'll be caught inside ten minutes.”

“No, we shan't,” said Gregory firmly. “It's black as pitch and we'll find plenty of places in which to hide. This time tomorrow night we'll be back in Berlin.”

“What a hope!” Freddie Charlton was almost stuttering with rage. “I couldn't move a mile in this accursed country without arousing suspicion. I can't speak a word of German.”

“Don't worry; I'll talk for us both.”

“You'll be talking to the Gestapo before you're an hour older.” Charlton jerked his arm out savagely, pointing towards a cluster of moving lights that had suddenly flashed out less than a hundred yards away. “Those are the German gunners coming to take us prisoner.”

“The Devil!” exclaimed Gregory. “I thought they were a couple of miles away. Come on! Run!”

Instinctively, as he began to run, Charlton turned away from the advancing Germans but Gregory grabbed his arm and pulled him sharply to the right.

“This way!” he grunted. “Our best chance is to try to put the crest of the hill between us and them. We'll get a few minute's start while they're examining the wrecked plane.”

For a hundred yards they ran on in silence, then Charlton muttered: “How's that wound of yours?”

“Not too good.” Gregory panted. “I wrenched it when we crashed and it's started to bleed again, but I reckon I can do about a couple of miles. I wish to God that instead of listening to Erika you'd had the sense to bind it up for me.”

“Your girl-friend wouldn't let me,” Charlton snapped impatiently. “I told you; her one thought was to have you out of this, and I don't wonder. If you were as dangerous to her as you've been to me she'd have been better off running round with a packet of dynamite in the seat of her drawers.”

“Let's save our breath till we're clear of the Troopers,” Gregory snapped back. “We'll have plenty of time for mutual recrimination later on.”

Charlton accepted the suggestion and they plodded on side by side up the grassy slope. Suddenly a few distant lights came into view, which told them that they had reached its crest. At that moment there was a loud explosion behind them.

For a second the whole landscape was lit up as brightly as though someone had fired a gargantuan piece of magnesium tape. Both of them automatically halted and looked back. They were just in time to catch the after-glow of the central flash and see a tall column of lurid flame shoot up towards the sky.

“That's the plane,” said Charlton bitterly. “Those blasted
gunners must have just about reached it. I hope to hell the explosion put paid to some of them.”

As he spoke a shot rang out; another; and another. Outlined against the sky they had been sighted in the flash of the explosion. The bullets whistled round them and with a sharp whack one tore through the skirt of Charlton's leather jacket.

Gregory flung himself flat. “You hit?” he called anxiously, as Charlton flopped down beside him.

“No. It was a near thing, though. What filthy luck that we happened to be right on the sky-line just as the plane went up! If we'd crossed the crest a moment earlier or a moment later we might have got away unseen.”

“Anyway, we're spotted now and the hunt is up,” Gregory muttered, and they began to wriggle quickly forward on their stomachs.

Bullets hummed and whistled through the grass but the flames from the burning plane lit only the slope up which they had come and the far side of the crest was in almost total darkness. The Boches were now firing blind, so there was little chance of their scoring a hit, and when the two fugitives had progressed about twenty yards down the further side of the slope they were sufficiently under cover to be safe again for the moment.

Standing up, they began to run once more and Gregory said: “I suppose you had a time-bomb in the plane?”

“Yes; we always carry one to prevent our aircraft falling into the hands of the enemy if we have to make a forced landing. I pulled out the pin while you were still rolling about the upturned roof of the cabin.”

“Good man! You know, I like you, Charlton; although I'm afraid I haven't given you any cause to fall in love with me. It takes nerve to remember a thing like that just after you've narrowly escaped being shot to hell and breaking your neck into the bargain.”

“Thanks.” Freddie Charlton's voice was non-committal. “It wasn't your fault that we were shot down, although you were just on the point of behaving like a lunatic. Anyhow, there's no sense in my bearing you any malice about that now. We're in this filthy mess together, so we may as well be pleasant to each other until we're caught and bunged into separate cells.”

“That's the idea,” Gregory panted; “but with a little luck we'll give these birds the slip yet. Old soldiers never die, you
know; they only fade away. I've been in tougher spots than this in my time and I've always succeeded in fading.”

“You'll need the fairy's cloak of invisibility and the giant's seven-league boots into the bargain to fade out of this mess, but I give you full marks for guts and optimism.”

“Thanks. I—” Gregory's words were cut short by the crack of a single rifle which was instantly followed by an irregular volley. The soldiers had breasted the rise and were spraying the lower ground with random shots in the hope that one of them might find a mark.

“Hell!” Charlton exclaimed. “Can you put on a spurt?”

“Yes,” muttered Gregory through his teeth. “Head a bit more to the right! When the plane blew up I spotted a dark patch of woodland over there.”