But Mahoney did nothing of the sort, as Biggles, in his heart, knew he would not. The Flight-Commander simply could not bring himself to shoot at a man who was virtually unarmed.
The knowledge that he, Biggles, could not either, made him still more angry, and with hate smouldering in his eyes, he dropped down and landed near Mahoney who had already put his machine on the ground not far from the Hun.
As they jumped from their cockpits and raced towards the yellow machine Biggles was afraid that Von Kraudil would set fire to his Albatros before they could reach him; but the Boche had no such intention, either because he forgot to do so, or because he was too scared.
Ì got him!' roared Mahoney as they ran.
Àll right, I know you did. I'm not arguing about it, am I?' answered Biggles shortly. The fact that his flight-commander had shot down the yellow machine, the pilot of which, had after all escaped just retribution, was rather a bitter pill for him to swallow. He slowed down while still some yards away, for the German pilot certainly did not look the sort of man Biggles imagined he would be. He had taken off his cap and goggles and was leaning against the fuselage flaxen-haired and blueeyed—eyes now wide open with apprehension. A trickle of blood was running down his ashen cheek, and he endeavoured to stem it with a handkerchief while he looked from the two pilots to a crowd of Tommies who, with an officer at their head, were coming at the double across the field.
Mahoney eyed his prisoner coldly, but said nothing. `What's your name?' snapped Biggles, eyes bright with hostility.
The German shook his head, making it clear that he did not understand.
Biggles pointed at the man. 'Von Kraudil?' he asked. `Nein, neinP was the reply.
Biggles looked at Mahoney, and Mahoney looked at Biggles.
Ì don't believe it's him after all!' declared Biggles. `This kid doesn't look like a murderer to me. I say,' he went to the infantry officer, who now joined them, 'do you, or any of your fellows, happen to speak German?'
Ì know a bit,' admitted the youthful, mud-splashed subaltern.
`Then would you mind asking him his name?' requested Biggles.
The officer put the question to the Boche, and turned back to Biggles.
`He says his name is Schultz.'
Àsk him for his identification disc; I have special reasons for not wanting to make any mistake about this.'
Again the infantry officer addressed the German, who groped under his tunic and produced a small, round piece of metal.
`He's telling the truth,' went on the subaltern, after a quick glance at it. 'Here's his name right enough—Wilhelm Schultz.'
`Then ask him if he's flying Von Kraudil's machine.'
`No!' came the prompt reply from the subaltern, who had continued the interrogation. 'He says this used to be Von Kraudil's machine, but it was handed over to him the other day; Von Kraudil has a new one—a blue one.'
Biggles stared.
`Blue, did you say?'
The Hun stared from one to another as the question was put to him, evidently unable to make out what the questions were leading up to.
`Yes. He says Von Kraudil's machine is blue, with
a white diagonal bar behind the cross on the fuselage.' `So that was Von Kraudil, eh?'
mused Biggles softly. `Why do you say "was"?' asked Mahoney.
`Because I got him after all!' cried Biggles exultantly. Ì got a machine answering to that description ten minutes ago! Come on, let's go and confirm it!'
`How did you manage to get mixed up in this affair?' asked Mahoney, as Biggles led the way to where the blue machine had crashed in flames. 'You were missing when the rest of us took off—asleep in your room or something.'
Àsleep, my foot!' snorted Biggles. 'I was doing a
spot of thinking—wondering what was the best way to get at that yellow Hun. It was sheer luck I heard about your dog-fight. I was making for my machine when Watt Tyler gave me the news that a formation of Huns was chasing two Camels. He gave me the direction so I beetled along. I saw the blue machine break away from the fight as I came up, went after it, and sent it down a flamer.'
`How about the pilot?' asked Mahoney. 'Did he manage to jump clear of his machine? If he didn't, we're going to have a job proving that Von Kraudil was flying it. We've only that other pilot's word for it that it was Von Kraudil's machine, you know.'
`H'm!' grunted Biggles. hadn't thought of that. I certainly didn't see him jump, but he may have been flung clear when his machine crashed. Anyway,' he added, as the still smoking remains of the blue machine came into view, 'we'll soon know.'
A crowd of officers and men from the near-by rest camp were clustered around the remains. Forcing their way through the crowd, Mahoney and Biggles approached as near as they could to the hot debris of the machine. It was a terrible jumble of fused and twisted wires, utterly unrecognizable as an aeroplane.
`Gosh! What a mess!' muttered Biggles.
It was impossible to search the hot debris for the body of the pilot, and from the distance it was impossible to distinguish any sign of human remains. Mahoney turned to one of the officers. 'Can you tell me what happened to the pilot of this machine?' he asked.
`Why, yes,' replied the other. 'We found his body lying some distance away. He must have been killed
when he was thrown out, but he had been badly burned beforehand. We took the body to the camp.'
`We want to find out his name,' said Mahoney. 'So we'll go along to the camp.'
`No need to do that,' said the officer. 'His name was Von Kraudil. I examined the identity disc.'
`Then it was our man, after all!' exclaimed Biggles. `Come on; let's get back and report. I think I'll take that week's leave the Old Man spoke about—and go and see Mark.'
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Table of Contents
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Chapter 2
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