biggles learns to fly
first time up!
One fine late September morning in the war-stricken year of
1916, a young officer, in the distinctive uniform of the Royal
Flying Corps, appeared in the doorway of one of the long, low,
narrow wooden huts which, mushroom-like, had sprung up all
over England during the previous eighteen months. He paused
for a moment to regard a great open expanse that stretched
away as far as he could see before him in the thin autumn mist
that made everything outside a radius of a few
hundred yards seem shadowy and vague.
There was little about him to distinguish him from thousands of
others in whose ears the call to arms had not sounded in vain,
and who were doing precisely the same thing in various parts of
the country. His uniform was still free from the marks of war that
would eventually stain it. His Sam Browne belt still squeaked
slightly when he moved, like a pair of new boots.
There was nothing remarkable, or even martial, about his
physique; on the contrary, he was slim, rather below average
height, and delicate-looking. A wisp of fair hair protruded from
one side of his rakishly tilted R.F.C. cap; his eyes, now
sparkling with pleasurable anticipation, were what is usually
called hazel. His features were finely cut, but the squareness of
his chin and the firm line of his mouth revealed a certain
doggedness, a tenacity of purpose, that denied any suggestion
of weakness. Only his hands were small and white, and
might have been those of a girl.
His youthfulness was apparent. He might have
reached the eighteen years shown on his papers, but
his birth certificate, had he produced it at the recruiting
office, would have revealed that he would not attain
that age for another eleven months. Like many others
who had left school to plunge straight into the war,
he had conveniently 'lost' his birth certificate when
applying for enlistment, nearly three months previously.
A heavy, hair-lined leather coat, which looked large enough for
a man twice his size, hung stiffly over his left arm. In his right
hand he held a flying-helmet, also of leather but lined with fur, a
pair of huge gauntlets, with coarse, yellowish hair on the backs,
and a pair of goggles.
He started as the silence was shattered by a reverberating roar
which rose to a mighty crescendo and then died away to a low
splutter. The sound, which he knew was the roar of an aero-
engine, although he had never been so close to one before,
came from a row of giant structures that loomed dimly through
the now-dispersing mist, along one side of the bleak expanse
upon which he gazed with eager anticipation. There was little
enough to see, yet he had visualized that flat area of sandy soil,
set with short, coarse grass, a thousand times during the past
two months while he had been at the 'ground' school. It was an
aerodrome, or, to be more precise, the aerodrome of No. 17
Flying Training School, which was situated near the village of
Settling, in Norfolk. The great, darkly looming buildings were
the hangars that housed the extraordinary collection of
hastily built aeroplanes which at this period of the first Great
War were used to teach pupils the art of flying.
A faint smell was borne to his nostrils, a curious aroma that
brought a slight flush to his cheeks. It was one common to all
aerodromes, a mingling of petrol, oil, dope, and burnt gases,
and which, once experienced, was never forgotten.
Figures, all carrying flying-kit, began to emerge from other
huts and hurry towards the hangars, where strange-looking
vehicles were now being wheeled out on to a strip of concrete
that shone whitely along the front of the hangars for their entire
length. After a last appraising glance around, the new officer set
off at a brisk pace in their direction.
A chilly breeze had sprung up; it swept aside the curtain of mist
and exposed the white orb of the sun, low in the sky, for it was
still very early. Yet it was daylight, and no daylight was wasted
at flying schools during the Great War.
He reached the nearest hangar, and then stopped, eyes
devouring an extraordinary structure of wood, wire, and canvas
that stood in his path. A propeller, set behind two exposed
seats, revolved slowly. Beside it stood a tall, thin man in flying-
kit; his leather flying coat, which was filthy beyond description
with oil stains, flapped open, exposing an equally dirty tunic, on
the breast of which a device in the form of a small pair of wings
could just be seen. Under them was a
tiny strip of the violet-and-white ribbon of the Military Cross.
To a fully fledged pilot the figure would have been
commonplace enough, but the young newcomer regarded him
with an awe that amounted almost to worship. He knew that the
tall, thin man could fly; not only could he fly, but he had fought
other aeroplanes in the sky, as the decoration on his breast
proved. At that moment, however, he seemed merely bored, for
he yawned mightily as he stared at the aeroplane with no sign
of interest. Then, turning suddenly, he saw the newcomer
watching him.
'You one of the fellows on the new course?' he asked shortly.
'Er-er-yes, sir,' was the startled reply.
'Ever been in the air?'
'No, sir.'
'What's your name?'
'Bigglesworth, sir. I'm afraid it's a bit of a mouthful, but that isn't
my fault. Most people call me Biggles for short.'
A slow smile spread over the face of the instructor.
'Sensible idea,' he said. 'All right, Biggles, get in.'
Biggles started violently. He knew that he had come to the
aerodrome to learn to fly, but at the back of his mind he had an
idea that there would be some sort of ceremony about it, some
preliminary overtures that would slowly lead up to a grand
finale in which he would take his place in an aeroplane before
the eyes of admiring mechanics. And now the instructor had
just said 'Get in!' as if the aeroplane were a common motorcar.
Mechanics were there, it is true, but they were getting on with
their work, taking not the slightest notice of the thrilling
exploit about to be enacted. Only
one, a corporal, was standing near the nose of the machine
looking round the sky with a half-vacant expression on his face.
In something like a daze, Biggles donned his flying kit. It was
the first time he had worn it, and he felt that the weight of it
would bear him to the ground. Stiffly he approached the
machine.
'Look out!'
He sprang back as the shrill warning came faintly to his ears
through the thick helmet. The instructor was glaring at him, his
face convulsed with rage.
'What are you trying to do?' he roared. 'Break my propeller with
your head? Come round to the front!'
'Sorry, sir,' gasped Biggles, and hurried as fast as his heavy kit
would permit to the front of the machine. He raised his foot and
clutched at a wire to help him up.
'Not there, you fool! Take your foot off that wing before you
burst the fabric!' shouted the instructor from his seat.
Biggles backed away hastily-too hastily; his foot caught in one
of the many wires that ran in all directions. He clutched wildly at
the leading edge of the lower 'plane to save himself, but in vain,
and the next instant he had measured his length on the ground.
The instructor looked down at him with such withering
contempt that Biggles nearly burst into tears. The corporal
came to his assistance. 'Put your left foot in that hole-now the
other one in there-now swing yourself up. That's right!'
To Biggles the cockpit seemed hopelessly inadequate, but he
squeezed himself into it somehow and settled down with a sigh
of relief. Something struck him smartly on the back of the head, and he jumped violently.
'Strap in,' said a hard voice , 'and keep your hands and feet off
the controls. If you start any nonsense I'll lam you over the
back of the skull with this!'
With some difficulty Biggles screwed his head round to see
what 'this' was. A large iron wrench was, thrust under his nose;
at the same moment the machine began to move forward, slowly
at first, but with ever-increasing speed.
Something like panic seized him, and he struggled wildly to
buckle up the cumbrous leather belt that he could see on either
side of him. It took him a minute to realize that he was sitting on
it. 'If he loops the loop or something I'm sunk!' he muttered
bitterly, as he fought to pull it from under him. The machine
seemed to lurch suddenly, and he grabbed both sides of the
cockpit, looking down as he did so. The hangars were just
disappearing below.
The next few minutes, which seemed an hour, were a nightmare.
The machine rose and fell in a series of sickening movements;
every now and then one of the wings would tip up at an
alarming angle. He was capable of the one thought only: 'I shall
never fly this thing as long as I live -never. I must have been
crazy to think I could.'
Woods, fields, and houses passed below in bewildering
succession, each looking like its fellow. Had the pilot told him
they were over any county in the United Kingdom, he would
have believed him.
'We must have gone fifty miles away from the aerodrome,' he
thought presently; but the nose of the machine tilted down, and
he saw the hangars leaping up towards him. For a moment he
really did not believe they were the hangars; he thought it was a trick of the
imagination. But there was a sudden grinding of wheels, and
before he really grasped what was happening, the machine had
run to a standstill in exactly the same spot from which it had
taken off. He surveyed the apparent miracle with wonderment,
making no effort to move.
'Well, how did you like it?' said a voice in his ear.
Biggles clambered awkwardly from his seat and turned to the
speaker. The instructor was actually smiling.
'Grand!' he cried enthusiastically. 'Top hole.'
'Didn't feel sick?'
'Not a bit.'
'It's a wonder. It's bumpy enough to make anyone sick; we shall
have to pack up flying if it doesn't get better. Let's go and mark
your time up on the board. Enter up your log-book. "First flight.
Air experience five minutes."
'Five minutes!' cried Biggles incredulously. 'We were only up
five minutes? I thought we were at least half an hour.'
The instructor had stopped before a notice-board headed ' "A"
Flight,' below which was a list of names.
'What did you say your name was?' he asked, a frown lining his
forehead.
'Bigglesworth, sir.'
'What flight are you in?'
'Flight? I don't know, sir.'
'You don't know?' snarled the instructor. 'Then what the dickens
do you mean by wasting my time? What were you loafing about
here for? These are "A" Flight sheds.'
Biggles stepped back quickly in his nervousness; his
heel struck a chock, and he grabbed wildly at a passing officer
to save himself from falling.
'Hi! Not so much of the clutching hand!' growled a voice. 'This
is a flying ground, not a wrestling school.'
'Sorry!' cried Biggles, aghast, detaching himself.
'Your name isn't Bigglesworth, by any chance, is it?' went on the
officer, a short, thick-set man with a frightful scar on his face
that reached from the corner of one eye to his chin.
'Why, yes, sir,' replied Biggles hesitatingly.
'Then what are you doing down here? You're in my flight, and
you've kept the class waiting.'
'I've been flying, sir,' protested Biggles.
'You've been what?'
'He's right!' grumbled the first instructor. 'He was down here, so
I naturally thought he was one of my fellows. I wish you'd look
after your own pupils!'
Biggles waited for no more, but hurried along the tarmac to
where a little group of officers-all pupils, judging by their
spotless uniforms-stood at the door of a hangar.
'Where have you been?' cried one. 'Nerky's been blinding you
to all eternity!'
'Nerky?'
'Captain Nerkinson. We call him Nerky because he's as nerky as
they make 'em! He's crashed about ten times, so you can't blame
him. Look out, here he comes!'
'Well, don't let us waste any more time,' began the instructor.
'Gather round this machine while I tell you something about it.'
The pupils formed a respectful semi-circle round the machine he
had indicated.
'This aeroplane,' he began, 'is called a Maurice
Farman Shorthorn
, chiefly because it hasn't any horns, short or
otherwise. Some people call it a Rumpity. Others call it a
birdcage, because of the number of wires it has got. The easiest
way to find out if all the wires are in their places is to put a
canary between the wings; if the bird gets out, you know there
is a wire missing somewhere.
'Always remember that if this machine gets into a spin, it never
gets out of it; and if it gets into a dive, the wings are apt to
come off. Presently I shall take you up in it, one at a time; if
anybody doesn't like it, he has only to say so, and he can
transfer to the infantry.'
His voice trailed away to a whisper as a faint whistling sound
reached their ears. All eyes were staring upwards at a machine
that was coming in to land. It was a Rumpity, and it seemed to
be descending in short jerks, as if coming down an invisible
staircase; the pilot could seen sitting bolt upright in his seat.
A deep groan burst from the instructor's lips, as if he had been
suddenly smitten with a violent pain.
'That's Rafferty, I'll bet my hide!' he muttered. 'I thought I'd
cured him of that habit. Watch him, everybody, and you'll see
the answer to the question why instructors go mad!'
Everybody on the tarmac was watching the machine,. Biggles
with a curious mixture of fear and fascination. A motor-truck,
with a dozen mechanics carrying Pyrene fire-extinguishers
hanging on to it, was already moving out on to the aerodrome in
anticipation of the crash.
The pilot of the descending machine continued to swoop
downwards in a series of short jerks. At the last moment he
seemed to realize his danger, and must
have pulled the joystick back into his stomach, for the machine
reared up like a startled horse and then slid back, tail first, to the
ground. There was a terrific crash of breaking woodwork and
tearing fabric, and the machine collapsed in a cloud of flying
splinters. The pilot shot out of his seat as if propelled by an
invisible spring, and rolled over and over along the ground like
a shot rabbit. Then, to the utter astonishment of everybody, he
rose to his feet and rubbed the back of his head ruefully. A
shout of laughter rose into the air from the spectators.
Captain Nerkinson nodded soberly.
'You have just seen a beautiful picture,' he said, 'of how not to
land an aeroplane!'
Chapter 2
Landed-But Lost
A week later, a Rumpity landed on the aerodrome, and Captain
Nerkinson swung himself to the ground. Biggles, in the front
cockpit, was about to follow, but the instructor stopped him.
'You're absolutely O.K.,' he said, 'except that you are inclined to
come in a bit too fast. Don't forget that. Off you go!'
'Off I what?' cried Biggles, refusing to believe his ears.
'You heard me. You're as right as rain-but don't be more than ten
minutes.'
'I won't - by james I won't, you can bet your life on that!'
declared Biggles emphatically. He took a last lingering survey
of the aerodrome, as when a swimmer who has climbed up to
the high diving-board for the first time looks down. Then,
suddenly making up his mind, he thrust the throttle open with a
despairing jerk and grabbed at the weird, spectacle-like
arrangement that served as a joy-stick in the Rumpity.
The machine leapt forward and careered wildly in a wide circle
towards the distant hedge. For a moment, as the machine
started to swing, Biggles thought he was going to turn a
complete circle and charge the hangars; but he kept his head,
and straightened it.
The tail lifted, and he eased the joy-stick back gently. To his
surprise the machine lifted as lightly as a feather, but the needle
on the air-speed indicator ran back
alarmingly. He shoved the joy-stick forward again with a frantic
movement as he realized with a heart-palpitating shock that he
had nearly stalled through climbing too quickly. Settling his
nose on the horizon and holding the machine on an even keel,
he soon began to gather confidence.
A nasty 'bump' over the edge of a wood brought his heart into
his mouth, 'and he muttered 'Whoa, there!' as if he was talking
to a horse. The sound of his own voice increased his
confidence, so from time to time he encouraged himself with
such comments as 'Steady, there! Whoa, my beauty!' and 'Easy
does it!'
Presently it struck him that it was time he started turning to
complete a circuit that would bring him back to the aerodrome.
He snatched a swift glance over his left shoulder, but he could
not see the hangars. He turned a little farther and looked again.
The aerodrome was nowhere in sight. It had disappeared as
completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed it up.
Perspiration broke out on his brow as he quickened his turn
and examined every point of the compass in quick succession;
but there was no aerodrome.
It took him another few seconds to realize that this miracle had
actually taken place.
'No matter,' he muttered. 'I've only got to go back the way I
came and I can't miss it.' In five minutes he was looking down
on country that he knew he had never seen before.
His heart fluttered, and his lips turned dry as the full shock of
the fact that he was completely lost struck him. Another 'plane
appeared in his range of vision, seeming to drift sideways like a
great grasshopper in that curious manner other machines have
in the air, and he followed it eagerly. It might not be going to
his
aerodrome, but that did not matter; any aerodrome would suit
him equally well. His toe slipped off the rudder-bar, and he
looked down to adjust it.
When he looked up again his machine was in an almost vertical
bank; he levelled out from a sickening side-slip, with beads of
moisture forming inside his goggles. He pushed them up with a
nervous jerk, and looked around for the other machine. It had
gone. North, south, east and west he strained his eyes, but in
vain. His heart sank, but he spotted a railway line and headed
towards it.
'It must be the line that goes to Settling,' he thought, and he
started to follow it eagerly. He was quite right, it was; but
unfortunately he was going in the wrong direction.
After what seemed an eternity of time, a curious phenomenon
appeared ahead. It seemed as if the land stopped short, ending
abruptly in space, so to speak. He pondered it for a moment,
and had just arrived at the conclusion that it was a belt of fog,
when something else caught his eye, and he stared at it
wonderingly. The shape seemed familiar, but for a moment or
two he could not make out what it was. It looked like a ship, but
how could a ship float in fog? Other smaller ones came into
view, and at last the truth dawned on him. He was looking at
the sea. It seemed impossible. As near as he could judge by
visualizing the map, the coast was at least forty miles from
Settling.
'This is frightful!' he groaned, and turned away from the
forbidding spectacle. A blast of air smote him on the cheek, and
objects on the ground suddenly grew larger. He clenched his
teeth, knowing that he had side-slipped badly on the turn. He
snatched a quick glance at the altimeter, and noted that it
indicated four
hundred feet, whereas a moment before the needle had pointed
to the twelve hundred mark.
'Good heavens, this won't do!' he told himself angrily. 'What
was it Nerky had said? "Never lose your head!" That was it.' He
pulled himself together with an effort and looked at his watch.
He had been in the air an hour and a half, and Nerky had told
him not to be more than ten minutes.
He wondered how much longer his petrol would last, realizing
with fresh dismay that he did not know how much petrol had
been in the tanks when he started. The light was already failing;
presently it would be dark, and what hope would he have then
of finding his way? He remembered that he had a map in his
pocket, but what use was that if he did not know where he was?
He could only find that out by landing and asking somebody.
'It's the only way!' he told himself despairingly. 'I might go on
drifting round in circles for the rest of my life without finding
the aerodrome.'
He began to watch the ground for a suitable field on which to
land.
He flew for some time before he found one. It was an enormous
field, beautifully green, and he headed the machine towards it.
At the last moment it struck him that there was something queer
about the grass, and he pulled up again with a jerk, realizing that
he had nearly landed on a field of turnips.
Another quarter of an hour passed, and another large field
presented itself;,it looked like stubble, which could do the
machine no harm; but he approached it warily. Only when he
was quite sure that it was stubble did he pull the throttle back.
The sudden, silence as the engine died away almost frightened
him, and he watched the ground, now seeming to come towards him,
longingly.
In the next few seconds of agonizing suspense he hardly knew
what he did, and it was with unspeakable relief and surprise that
he heard his wheels trundling over solid earth. The machine
stopped, and he surveyed the countryside, scarcely able to
believe that he was actually on the ground.
'I've landed!' he told himself joyfully. 'Landed without breaking
anything! How did I do it? Good old aeroplane!' he went on,
patting the wooden side of the cockpit. 'You must have done it
yourself-I didn't. But the thing is, where are we?'
He stood up in the cockpit and looked around. Not a soul was
in sight, nor was there any sign of human habitation.
'I would choose the only place in England where there aren't
any roads, houses or people!' he thought bitterly. 'If I've got to
walk to the horizon looking for somebody, it will be pitch dark
before I get back. Then I should probably lose myself as well
as the aeroplane!' he concluded miserably.
He sprang up as the sound of an aero engine reached his ears.
It was a Rumpity, and, what was more, it was coming towards
him. It almost looked as if the pilot intended landing in the same
field.
'Cheers!' muttered Biggles. 'Now I shall soon know where I am!'
He was quite right; he was soon to know.
The Rumpity landed. The pilot jumped to the ground and strode
towards him; there seemed to be something curiously familiar
about his gait.
'Can it be?' thought Biggles. 'Great jumping fish, it is. Well,
I'm dashed!'
Captain Nerkinson, his brows black as a thundercloud, was
coming toward him. 'What game d'you think you're playing?' he
snarled.
'Game?' echoed Biggles, in amazement. 'Playing?'
'Yes, game! Who told you you could land outside the
aerodrome?'
'I told myself,' replied Biggles truthfully. 'I wanted to find out
where I was. I lost myself, and I knew I had got so far away
from the aerodrome that I-'
'Lost! What are you talking about? You've crossed the
aerodrome three times during the last hour. I saw you!'
'I crossed the aerodrome?'
'You've just flown straight over it! That's why I chased you.'
'Flown over it!' Biggles shut his eyes, and shook his head,
shuddering. 'Then it can only be a few miles away,' he
exclaimed.
'A few miles! It's only a few yards, you young fool! Just (he
other side of the hedge!'
Biggles sank down weakly in his seat.
'All right, let's get back,.' went on the instructor. 'Follow close
behind, and don't take your eyes off me.'
He hurried back to his machine and took off. Biggles followed.
The leading machine merely hopped over the hedge and then
began to glide down again at once, and Biggles could hardly
believe his eyes when the aerodrome loomed up; it did not
seem possible that he could have missed seeing those
enormous sheds.
He started to glide down in Captain Nerkinson's wake. He
seemed to be travelling much faster than the leading machine,
for his nose was soon nearly touching its tail. He saw the
instructor lean out of his scat and
look back at him, white-faced. He seemed to be yelling
something.
'He thinks I'm going to ram him,' thought Biggles. 'And so I
shall if he doesn't get out of my way; he ought to know jolly
well that I can't stop.'
The instructor landed, but he did not stop; instead, he raced
madly across the ground towards the far side of the aerodrome,
Biggles following close behind.
'I'm not losing you,' he declared grimly.
Captain Nerkinson swung round in a wide circle towards the
sheds, and then, leaping out of the machine almost before it
had stopped, sprinted for safety.
Biggles missed the other machine by inches; indeed, he would
probably have crashed into it but for half a dozen mechanics,
who, seeing the danger, dashed out and grabbed his wings.
'Are you trying to kill me?' Captain Nerkinson asked him, with
deadly calm. He was breathing heavily.
'You said I wasn't to lose you.'
'I know I did, but I didn't ask you to ram me, you lunatic!'
The instructor recovered himself, and pointed to the hangar.
'Go and enter up your time,' he said sadly. 'If you stick to the
tails of the Huns as closely as you stuck to mine, you should
make a skyfighter.'
Three days later a little group collected around the notice-
board outside the orderly-room.
'What is it?' asked Biggles, trying to reach the board.
'Posting,' said somebody.
Biggles pushed his way to the front and ran his eye down the
alphabetical list of names until he reached his own, and read:
2nd Lieut. Bigglesworth, J., to No. 4 School of Fighting,
Frensham.
The posting was dated to take effect from the following day.
He spent the evening hurriedly packing his kit, and, in company
with four other officers who had been posted to the same
aerodrome, caught the night train for his new station.
It was daylight the following day when they arrived, for
although the journey to the School of Fighting, which was
situated on the Lincolnshire coast, was not a long one, it
involved many changes and delays. A tender met them at the
station and dropped them with their kits in front of the orderly-
room.
Biggles knocked at the door, entered, and saluted.
'Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth reporting for duty, sir,' he said
smartly.
The adjutant consulted a list. 'The mess secretary will fix you
up with quarters, Bigglesworth,' he said. 'Get yourself settled as
soon as you can and report to "A" Flight-Major Maccleston.' He
nodded, and then went on with his work.
Biggles dumped his kit in the room allotted to him, and then
made his way to the sheds, where he was told that Major
Maccleston was in the air.
He was not surprised, for the air was full of machines-Avros,
B.E.s
, F.E.s, Pups, and one or two types he did not recognize.
Most of them were circling at the far side of the aerodrome and
diving at something on the ground. The distant rattle of machine-
guns came to his cars.
Later on he learned that the far side of the aerodrome ran
straight down into the sea, a long, deserted foreshore, on which
old obsolete aeroplanes were placed as targets. Scores of
officers stood on the tarmac, singly or in little groups, waiting
for their turns to fly.
A Pup taxied out to take off, and he watched it with intense
interest, for it was the type that he ultimately hoped to fly. An
F.E. was just coming in to land, and he stiffened with horror,
knowing that a collision was inevitable.
He saw the gunner in the front seat of the F.E. spring up and
cover his face with his arms; then the Pup bored into it from
underneath with a dreadful crash of splintering woodwork. For a
moment the machines clung together, motionless in mid air; then
they broke apart, each spinning into the ground with a terrible
noise which, once heard, is never forgotten. A streak of fire ran
along the side of one of them, and then a sheet of flame leapt
high into the air. An ambulance raced towards the scene, and
Biggles turned away, feeling suddenly sick. It was the first real
crash he had seen.
A flight-sergeant was watching him grimly. 'A nasty one, sir,' he
said casually, as if he had been watching a football match in
which one of the players had fallen. 'You'll soon get used to that,
though,' he went on, noting Biggles', pale face. 'We killed seven
here last week.'
Biggles turned away. Flying no longer seemed just a thrilling
game; tragedy stalked it too closely. He was glad when an
instructor landed, turned out his passenger,
and beckoned him to take his place. Biggles took his seat in
the cockpit, noting with a thrill that it was fitted with machine-
guns.
'We're going to do a little gunnery practice,' said the instructor,
and took off.
Three days later, Biggles was called to the orderly room.
'What's up?' he asked a sober-faced officer, who was just
leaving.
'Heavy casualties in France,' was the reply. 'They're shoving
everybody out as fast as they can.'
Biggles entered and saluted. The adjutant handed him a
movement order and a railway warrant.
'A tender will leave the mess at six forty-five to catch the seven
o'clock train,' he said. 'You will proceed direct to France via
Newhaven and Dieppe.'
'But I haven't finished my tests yet, sir!' exclaimed Biggles, in
surprise.
'Have you got your logbook and training transfer card?'
Biggles placed them on the desk.
The adjutant filled in the tests which had not been marked up,
signed them, and then applied the orderlyroom stamp.
'You've passed them now,' he said, with a queer smile. 'You may
put up your "wings"!'
Biggles saluted, and returned to the aerodrome in a state of
suppressed excitement. Two thoughts filled his mind. One was
that he was now a fully fledged pilot, entitled to wear the
coveted 'wings', and the other that he was going to France.
The fact that he had done less than fifteen hours' flying, dual
and solo, did not depress him in the least.
Chapter 3
The Boat for France
There are some people who say that the North Pole is. the most
desolate spot on the face of the globe. Others give the doubtful
credit to the middle of the Sahara Desert. They are all wrong.
Without the slightest shadow of doubt the most dismal spot on
the face of the earth is that depressing railway terminus known
as Newhaven Quay, on the south coast of England, where the
passenger for the Continent gets out of a train, walks across a
platform, and steps on to the cross-Channel boat. At normal
times it is bad enough, but during the First World War it was
hard to find words to describe it.
So thought Biggles, who crouched rather than sat on a kit-bag
in a corner of the platform. His attitude dripped depression as
plainly as the dark silhouette of the station dripped moisture.
He was not alone on the platform. At intervals along the stone
slabs, dark, ghostly figures loomed mysteriously, in ones and
twos, and in little groups. At the far end, a long line of men in
greatcoats, with unwieldy looking bundles on their backs, filed
slowly into view from an indistinguishable background. The
only sounds were vague, muffled orders, and the weird moaning
of the biting north-east wind through the rigging of a ship that
rested like a great vague shadow against the quay. Not a light
showed anywhere, for German submarines had been reported in
the Channel.
Once, a low laugh echoed eerily from the shadows, and the
unusual sound caused those who heard it to turn curiously in
the direction whence it came, for the occasion of the departure
of a leave-boat for France was not usually one for mirth.
Biggles moved uneasily and seemed to sink a little lower into
the greatcoat that enveloped him. He did not even move when
another isolated figure emerged slowly from the pillar behind
which it had been sheltering from the icy blast, and stopped
close by.
'Miserable business, this messing about doing nothing,'
observed the newcomer. His voice sounded almost cheerful,
and it may have been this quality that caused Biggles to look
up.
'Miserable, did you say?' he exclaimed bitterly. 'It's awful. There
isn't a word bad enough for it. I'm no longer alive-I'm just a
chunk of frozen misery.'
'They say we shall be moving off presently.'
'I've been hearing that ever since I arrived!'
'They say it's a U-boat in the Channel that's holding us up.'
'What about it? Surely to goodness it's better to drown quickly
than sit here and freeze to death slowly. Why the dickens don't
they let us go on board, anyway?'
'Ask me something easier. Is this your first time over?'
Biggles nodded. 'Yes,' he said grimly, 'and if it's always like this,
I hope it will be the last.'
'It probably will be, so you needn't worry about that.'
'What a nice cheerful fellow you are!'
The other laughed softly. 'I see you're R.F.C.. What squadron
are you going to?'
'I've no idea. My Movement Order takes me as far as the Pool
at St Omer.'
'Splendid! We shall go that far together: I'm in Two-six-six.'
Biggles glanced up with fresh interest. 'So you've been over
before?' he queried.
'Had six months of it; just going back from my first leave. By the
way, my name's Mahoney - we may as well know each other.'
'Mine's Bigglesworth, though most people find that rather a
mouthful and leave off the "worth." You fly Pups in Two-six-
six, don't you?'
'We do-they're nice little Hun-getters.'
'I hope to goodness I get to a scout squadron, although I
haven't flown a scout yet.'
'So much the better,' laughed Mahoney. 'If you'd been flying
scouts they'd be certain to put you on bombers when you got
to France. Fellows who have been flying two-seaters are
usually pitched into scout squadrons. That's the sort of daft
thing they do, and one of the reasons why we haven't won the
war yet. Hallo! It looks as if we're going to move at last.'
A gangway slid from the quay to the ship with a dull rattle, and
the groups of officers and other ranks began to converge upon
it.
'Come on, laddie; on your feet and let's get aboard,' continued
Mahoney. 'Where's the rest of your kit?'
'Goodness knows! The last I saw of it, it was being slung on to
a pile with about a thousand others.'
'Don't worry. It will find you all right. How much flying have
you done?'
'Fifteen hours.'
Mahoney shook his head. 'Not enough,' he said. 'Never mind, if
you get to Two-six-six, I'll give you a tip or two.'
'You can give me them on the journey, in case I don't,'
suggested Biggles. 'I've been waiting for a chance to learn a
few things first-hand from someone who has done it.'
'If more chaps would take that view there would be fewer
casualties,' said Mahoney soberly, as they crossed over the
narrow gangway.
Two days later a Crossley tender pulled up on a lonely, poplar-
lined road to the north of St Omer, and Biggles stepped out.
There was nothing in sight to break the bleak inhospitality of
the landscape except three many-hued canvas hangars, a
cluster of wooden huts, and three or four curious semi-circular
corrugated iron buildings.
'Well, here you are, Biggles,' said Mahoney, who had remained
inside the vehicle. 'We say good-bye here.'
'So this is One-six-nine Squadron,' replied Biggles, looking
about him. 'My word! I must say it doesn't look the sort of
place you'd choose for a summer holiday!'
'It isn't. But then you're not on a holiday!' smiled Mahoney.
'Don't worry; you'll find things cheerful enough inside. It's too
bad they wouldn't let you go to a scout squadron; but F.E.'s
aren't so bad. They can fight when they have to, and the Huns
know it, believe me. I suppose they're so short of pilots that
they are just bunging fellows straight to the squadrons where
pilots are most needed. Well, I must get along; Two-six-six is
only seven or eight miles farther on, so we shall be seeing
something of each other. Come over to our next guest night.
Remember what I've told youand you may live until next
Christmas. Cheerio, laddie!'
'Cheerio!' replied Biggles, with a wave of farewell as the car
sped on to its destination. He picked up his valise and walked
towards a square wooden building near the hangars, which he
rightly judged to be the squadron office. He tapped on the
door, opened it in response to a curt invitation to enter, and
saluted briskly.
'Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth, sir,' he said.
An officer who sat at a desk strewn with papers rose, came
towards him, and offered his hand. 'Pleased to meet you,
Bigglesworth,' he said. 'And if you can fly, everyone here will
be more than pleased to see you. We are having a tough time
just at present. I'm Todd, more often known as "Toddy" - and I'm
simply the Recording Officer. The C.O. is in the air, but he'll
want a word with you when he gets back. You'll like Major
Paynter. Wing 'phoned us that you were on the way, so you'll
find your quarters ready in Number Four Hut. Get your kit
inside, and make yourself comfortable; then go across to the
mess. I'll be along presently. By the way, how many hours'
flying- solo - have you done?'
'Nearly nine hours.'
Toddy grimaced. 'What on?' he asked.
'Shorthorns and Avros.'
'Ever flown an F.E.?'
'Not solo. I had a flight in one at Frensham, but an instructor
was in the other seat.'
'Never mind; they're easy enough to fly,' answered Toddy. 'See
you later.'
Biggles departed to his quarters. The work of unpacking his kit
occupied only a few minutes, and then he made his way slowly
towards the officers' mess. He was still a little distance away,
when the sound of an aero-engine made him glance upwards.
An aeroplane was heading towards the aerodrome, a type
which he did not recognize. But, unwilling to betray his
ignorance before possible spectators in the mess, he paid no
further attention to it and continued on his course. He then
noted with some surprise that Toddy was behaving in a very
odd manner. The Recording Officer began by flinging open the
door of the squadron office and racing towards the mess. When
he had reached about half-way, however, he appeared to
change his mind, and, turning like a hare, took a flying leap into
a sort of hole.
Biggles next noticed the faces of several officers at the mess
window; they seemed to be very excited about something,
waving their arms wildly. It did not occur to him for a moment
that the signals were intended for him. The first indication he
received that something unusual was happening was a curious
whistling sound; but even then the full significance of it did not
strike him. The whistle swiftly became a shrill howl, and
thinking he was about to be run down by a speedy car, he
jumped sideways. The movement probably saved his life, for
the next instant the world seemed to explode around him in a
brilliant flash of flame. There was a thundering detonation that
seemed to make the very earth rock, and he was flung violently
to the ground. For a moment he lay quite still, dazed, while a steady downpour of
clods, stones, and loose earth rained about him.
The steady rattle of machine-guns in action penetrated his
temporarily paralysed brain, and he rose unsteadily to his feet.
He noted that the aeroplane had disappeared, and that a little
crowd of officers and mechanics were racing towards him.
'What the dickens was that?' he asked the officers who ran up.
The question seemed to amuse them, for a yell of laughter rose
into the air.
Biggles flushed. 'Do you usually greet new fellows like that?' he
inquired angrily.
There was a renewed burst of laughter.
'Jerry does, when he gets the chance. Our friends over the Line
must have heard that you had arrived, so they sent their love
and kisses,' replied a tall, good looking officer, with a wink at the
others. 'Don't you know an L.V.G.
when you see one?' he
added.
'An L.V.G.! A Hun!' cried Biggles.
The other nodded. 'Yes. Just slipped over to lay the daily egg.
You're lucky,' he went on. 'When I saw you strolling across the
aerodrome as if you were taking an airing in the park, I thought
we should be packing up your kit by this time. You're
Bigglesworth, I suppose; we heard you were coming. My name
is Mapleton, of A Flight. This is Marriot- Lutters -Way-
McAngus. We're all A Flight. The others are in the air. But
come across to the mess and make yourself at home!'
'But what about that L.V.G.?' cried Biggles. 'Do you let him get
away with that sort of thing?'
'He's half-way home by now; the best thing we can hope for is
that the Line archies give him a warm time. Hallo, here comes
the patrol! What-'
A sudden hush fell upon the group as all eyes turned upwards
to where two machines were coming in to land. Biggles noticed
that Mapleton's face had turned oddly pale and strained. He
noticed, too, for the first time, that there were three stars on his
sleeves, which indicated the rank of captain.
'Two!' breathed the man whom Captain Mapleton had named
Marriot. 'Two!' he said again. And Biggles could feel a sudden
tension in the air.
'Come on!' said Mapleton. 'Let's go and meet them. Maybe the
others have stayed on a bit longer.'
Together they hurried towards the now taxi-ing machines.
The events of the next few minutes were to live in Biggles' mind
for ever. His whole system, brought face to face with the grim
realities of war, received a shock which sent his nerves leaping
like a piece of taut elastic that has been severed with scissors.
He was hardly conscious of it as the time, however, when, with
the others, he reached the leading machine. He merely looked at
it curiously. Then, instinctively, he looked at the pilot, who was
pushing up his goggles very slowly and deliberately.
One glance at his face and Biggles knew he was in the presence
of tragedy. The face was drawn and white , but it was the
expression on it- or, rather, the absence of expression on it -that
made Biggles catch his breath. There was no fear written there,
but rather a look of weariness. For perhaps two minutes he sat
thus, staring with unseeing eyes at his instrument-board. Then, with a
movement that was obviously an effort, he passed his hand
wearily over his face and climbed stiffly to the ground. Still
without speaking he began to walk towards the mess, followed
by two or three of the officers.
A low, muttered exclamation made Biggles half-turn to the man
next to him. It was Lutters.
'Just look at that kite!' Lutters said. 'The Old Man must have
been through hell backwards.'
'Old Man?' ejaculated Biggles questioningly.
'Yes-the C.O.. There must be two hundred bullet holes in that
machine; how it holds together beats me!'
Biggles' attention had been so taken up with the pilot that he
had failed to notice the machine, and now he caught his breath
as he looked at it. There were holes everywhere; in several
places pieces of torn canvas hung loosely, having been
wrenched into long, narrow streamers by the wind. One of the
interplane struts was splintered for more than half its length,
and a flying wire trailed uselessly across the lower 'plane.
He was about to take a step nearer, when a cry made him look
towards the second machine. Two mechanics were carefully
lifting a limp body to the ground.
'You'd better keep out of the way,' said McAngus brusquely, as
he passed; but Biggles paid no attention. He knew that
McAngus was right, and that the sight was hardly one for a
new pilot; but the tableau drew him irresistibly towards it.
When he reached the machine they had laid the mortally
wounded pilot on the ground. His eyes were
open, but there was an expression in them that Biggles had
never seen before.
'Jimmy-how's Jimmy?' the stricken man was muttering; and then:
'Look after Jimmy!'
Biggles felt himself roughly pushed aside.
It was the C.O., who had returned. 'Get him to hospital as fast as
you can,' he told the driver of the motor-ambulance which had
pulled up alongside. Then, 'How's Mr Forrester?' he asked a
mechanic, who was bending over the front cockpit of the
machine.
'I'm afraid he's dead, sir,' was the quiet reply.
'All right-get him out!' said the C.O. briefly.
Biggles watched two mechanics swing up to the forward
cockpit of the F.E. Slowly, and with great care, they lifted the
body of the dead observer and lowered it into waiting hands
below.
Biggles caught a glimpse of a pale, waxen face,wearing a
curious, fixed smile, and then he turned away, feeling that he
was in the middle of a ghastly dream, from which he would
presently awaken. He was overwhelmed with a sense of
fantastic unreality.
Again the drone of an aero-engine rose and fell on the breeze,
and at the same instant a voice cried: 'Here's another!' He
swung round and stood expectant with the others as the
machine reached the aerodrome, roared low over their heads as
it came round into the wind, and then landed. A large white
letter U was painted on the nose.
'It's Allen and Thompson!' cried several voices at once.
The machine taxied up quickly. The observer leaped out as
soon as it stopped, and started buffing his arms to restore the
circulation. The pilot joined him on the ground, flung open his
flying-coat and lit a cigarette.
Biggles saw there were several bullet-holes in this machine, too,
but neither pilot nor observer paid any attention to them. In
fact, the pilot, a stockily built, red-faced youth, was grinning
cheerfully, and Biggles stared in amazement at a man who could
laugh in the shadow of death.
'Love old Ireland!' observed Thompson, the observer. 'Isn't it
perishing cold! Give me a match, somebody. What a day!' he
went on. 'The sky's fairly raining Huns. The Old Man got a
couple- did he tell you? Poor jimmy's gone, I'm afraid, and
Lucas. We ran into the biggest bunch of Huns over Douai that
I ever saw in my life.'
He turned and walked away towards the mess, the others
following, and Biggles was left alone with the mechanics, who
were now pulling the machines into the hangars with excited
comments on the damage they had suffered. He watched them
for a few minutes, and then, deep in thought, followed the other
officers towards the mess, feeling strangely subdued. For the
first time he had looked upon death, and although he was not
afraid, something inside him seemed to have changed. Hitherto
he had regarded the War as 'fun'. But he now perceived that he
had been mistaken. It was one thing to read of death in the
newspapers, but quite another matter to see it in reality.
He was passing the squadron office when Toddy called him.
'The C.O. wants to have a word with you right away,' he said.
Several officers were in the room when Biggles entered, and he
felt rather self-conscious of his inexperience; but the C.O. soon
put him at ease.
'I'm afraid you've come at rather a bad moment,' he began,
shaking hands. 'I mean for yourself,'
he added quickly. 'We hope it will be a good one for us. I'm posting
you to A Flight; Captain Mapleton will be your flight-
commander. We like to keep pilots and observers together, as
far as we can, but it's not always possible. I believe Way is
without a regular pilot, isn't he, Mapleton? So Bigglesworth
might pair off with him.'
Captain Mapleton nodded. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'He's now
my only observer now without a regular pilot.'
'Good! Then your Flight is now up to establishment,' continued
the major, turning again to Biggles. 'Don't let what you've seen
to-day depress you. It was an unfortunate moment for you to
arrive; that sort of thing doesn't happen every day, thank
goodness!' He hesitated and went on, 'I want you always to
remember that the honour of the squadron comes first. We are
going through rather a difficult time just now, and we may have
a lot of uphill work ahead of us, so we're all doing our best.
Trust your flight-commander implicitly, and always follow his
instructions. In the ordinary way I should give you a week or
two to get your bearings before letting you go over the Line,
but we've had a bad run of casualties, and I need every officer I
can get hold of. It's rather bad luck on you, but I want you to do
the best you can in the circumstances. Study the map and the
photographs in the map-room; in that way you will soon
become acquainted with the area. All right, gentlemen, that's all.'
As the officers filed out, a deeply tanned, keen-eyed young
officer tapped Biggles on the arm. 'I'm Mark Way,' he said. 'It
looks as if we shall be flying together, so the sooner we know
each other the better.'
'That's true,' said Biggles. 'Have you been out here long?'
'Nearly three months,' replied Mark simply. 'But I saw a bit of
active service with the infantry before I transferred to the R.F.C..
I came over with the New Zealand contingent; my home is out
there.'
'Sporting of you to come all this way to help us. Who have you
been flying with?'
'Lane.'
'Where is he now?'
Mark gave Biggles a sidelong glance. 'He's gone topsides,' he
said slowly. 'He died in hospital last week- bullet through the
lungs.'
Biggles was silent for a moment, feeling rather embarrassed.
'You'll like Mapleton,' went on Mark. 'He's a good sort. By the
way, we call him Mabs; I don't know why, but he was called that
when I came here. Marble is his observer- his real name is
Mardell, but Marble is a good name for him. He's as cold as ice
in a dogfight, and knows every inch of the Line. They're a jolly
good pair, and I'd follow them anywhere. Allen is O.C. B
Flight. It's best to keep out of his way; he's a bad-tempered
brute. Perhaps it isn't quite fair of me to say that, because I don't
think he means to be nasty; he's been out here a long time, and
his nerves are all to pieces. Rayner has C Flight. He's all right,
but a bit of a snob, although personally I think it's all
affectation. His brother was killed early in the war, and all he
really thinks about is revenge. He's got several Huns. He takes
on Huns wherever he finds them, regardless of numbers, and he
gets his Flight into pretty hot water; but they can't complain,
because he's always in the thick of it himself. I don't think his luck can last much
longer. I wouldn't be his observer for anything! Marriot and
McAngus are the other two pilots in A Flight. Conway flies
with Marriot, and Lutter is Mac's observer; they're a good
crowd. Hallo, here comes Mabs. What does he want?'
'Bigglesworth,' began the flight-commander, coming up, 'I don't
want to rush you, but I'm taking a Line patrol up this afternoon.
I think it will be pretty quiet, or I wouldn't let you come, even if
you wanted to. But the fact is, everybody has been flying all
hours, and it will mean extra flying if someone has to make a
special journey to show you the Lines. And it isn't as if we were
flying single-seaters; you've always got Mark with you to put
you right if you get adrift. So if you care to come this afternoon
it will serve two purposes. You'll get a squint at the Line and a
whiff of archie, and it will give McAngus a rest. He's looking a
bit knocked up.'
'Certainly I'll come,' replied Biggles quickly.
'That's fine! I thought you wouldn't mind. It's all for your own
good, in the long run, because the sooner you get used to
archie the better. But for goodness' sake keep close to me. You
keep your eye on him, Mark. We take off at three o'clock, but be
on the tarmac a quarter of an hour before that, and I'll show
you our proposed course while the engines are warming up.
Chapter 4
Battle
It was under a cold, grey sky, that Biggles sat in his cockpit the
same afternoon, waiting for the signal to take off. He had made
one short flight over the aerodrome immediately after lunch to
accustom himself to his new machine, and he had satisfied
himself that he was able to fly it without difficulty. The F.E.2b
was not a difficult machine to fly; it had no vicious habits,
which was, perhaps, the reason why those who flew it were
unstinted in its praise.
The patrol was made up of three machines. Captain Mapleton,
of course, was leading. Marriot and his gunner, 'Con' Conway,
were on the right, and Biggles, with Mark Way in the front
seat, on the left.
The machine was fitted with two machine-guns, one firing
forward and the other backwards over the top 'plane, both
operated by the gunner. A rack containing drums of
ammunition was fitted to the inside of the cockpit.
Biggles felt a thrill of excitement run through him as the flight-
commander's machine began to move forward; he heard
Marriot's engine roar, and then the sound was drowned in the
bellow of his own as he opened the throttle. Together the three
machines tore across the damp aerodrome and then soared into
the air, turning slowly in a wide circle.
A quarter of an hour later they were still over the aerodrome,
but at a height of seven thousand feet,
and Biggles, who had settled down into the long turn, dashed
off at a tangent as the leader suddenly straightened out and
headed towards the east. A sharp exclamation from the watchful
Mark warned him of his error, which he hastened to rectify,
although he still remained at a little distance from the other two
machines.
'Try to keep up!' yelled Mark, turning in his seat and smiling
encouragingly. 'it's easier for everybody then.'
Biggles put his nose down a little to gain extra speed, and then
zoomed back into position, a manoeuvre which Mark
acknowledged with an approving wave. For some time they flew
on without incident, and then Mark began to move about in his
cockpit, looking towards every point of the compass in turn,
and searching the sky above and the earth below with long,
penetrating stares.
Once he reached for his gun, and caused Biggles' heart to jump
by firing a short burst downwards. But then Biggles
remembered that Mark had said he would fire a burst when they
reached the Line, to warm the guns, which would reduce the
chance of a jam.
Following the line of the gun-barrel, he looked down and saw an
expanse of brown earth, perhaps a mile in width, merging
gradually into dull green on either side. Tiny zig-zag lines ran in
all directions. Must be the Lines, he thought, with a quiver of
excitement, not unmixed with apprehension, and he continued
to look down with interest and awe.
'Hi!'
He looked up with a guilty start; Mark was yelling at him, and
he saw the reason-he had drifted a good hundred yards from
his companions.
'My hat!' he mused. 'I shall never see anything if I can't take my
eyes off them without losing them.'
But Mark was pointing with outstretched finger over the side of
the cockpit, and, following the line indicated, he saw a little
group of round, black blobs floating in space. Automatically he
counted them; there were five-no, six. He blinked and looked
again. There were eight. 'That's queer!' he muttered, and even as
the truth dawned upon him there was a flash of flame near his
wing-tip, and a dull explosion that could be heard above the
noise of the engine.
The swerve of the machine brought his heart into his mouth,
but he righted it quickly and looked around for the other two.
They had disappeared. For a moment he nearly panicked, but
Mark's casual nod in the direction of his right wing restored his
confidence, and, peering forward, he perceived them about fifty
yards or so to his right. He turned quickly into his proper place,
receiving a nod of approval from his gunner as he did so.
The black archie bursts were all around them now, but Mark
did not appear to notice them; he had reached for his gun and
held it in a position of readiness. Suddenly he tilted it up and
fired a long burst: then, as quick as lightning, he dragged it to
the other side and fired again.
Biggles nearly strained his neck trying to see what Mark was
shooting at, but seeing nothing but empty air decided that he
must be warming up his guns again. He looked across at the
machine on his right, and noticed that Conway was shooting,
too. As he watched him he ceased firing and looked down over
the side of his cockpit for a long time; then he looked across at
Mark and held up his fist, thumb pointing upwards.
'There seems to be a lot of signalling going on!' thought Biggles.
'I wonder what it's all about?'
The time passed slowly, and he began to feel bored and rather
tired, for it was the longest flight he had ever made. This seems a
pretty tame business, he pondered. I should have liked to see a
Hun or two, just to get an idea of what they look like. 'Hallo!'
Mark was standing up again, trying to point his gun straight
down, and for the first time he seemed to be excited. Casually
Biggles leaned over the side to see what it was that could
interest his gunner to such an extent. There, immediately below
him, not fifty yards away, was a large green swept-back wing,
but that which held his gaze and caused his lips to part in
horrified amazement were the two enormous black Maltese
crosses, one on each end. His skin turned to goose flesh and
his lips went dry. He saw a man standing in the back seat of the
machine pointing something at him; then, for no reason that he
could discover, the man fell limply sideways, and the green wing
folded up like a piece of tissue paper. It turned over on its side
and the man fell out.
In a kind of paralysed fascination Biggles watched the brown,
leather-clad body turning slowly over and over as it fell. He
thought it would never reach the ground.
He was brought to his senses with a jerk by a shrill yell. The
other two machines were turning- had nearly completed the turn.
He swung round after them in a frantic bank, skidding in a
manner that made Mark clutch at the side of his cockpit. He
could see no other German machines in sight, so he decided that
the time allotted for their patrol had expired.
'My word, now he has decided to go home, he is
certainly going in a hurry!' thought Biggles, as the leading
machine nearly stood on its nose as it dived full out towards the
ground. He thrust his joy-stick forward, and with difficulty
restrained a yell of delight.
The shriek of the propeller, the howl of the wind in the wires,
seemed to get into his blood and intoxicate him. He wondered
vaguely why Mark was looking back over his shoulder instead
of looking where they were going and enjoying the fun, and he
was almost sorry when the flight-commander pulled out of the
dive and commenced to glide down.
He watched the ground closely, noting such landmarks as he
thought he would be able to recognize again, until the
aerodrome came into view, when he concentrated on the
business of landing.
A green Very light soared upwards from the leading machine,
and then dropped swiftly; it was the 'washout' signal, meaning
that the machines were to land independently. He allowed the
others to land first, and then, with exultation in his heart, he
followed them down and taxied up to the hangars.
Mark gave him a queer smile as he switched off the engine.
'Pretty good!' he said cheerfully. 'That's one on the slate for me
on Lane's account.'
'You mean that green Hun underneath us?' cried Biggles. 'My
gosh! It gave me a queer feeling to see that fellow going down.'
'Great Scott, no! Conway got him. I got the blue-and-yellow
devil.'
'What!' exclaimed Biggles, in amazement. 'What blue-and-yellow
devil?'
'Didn't you see him diving down on us from in front? He was
after you.'
'No, I didn't, and that's a fact,' admitted Biggles soberly. 'I didn't
see you shoot at him.'
'I couldn't at first, because I was busy plastering the black
fellow who was peppering us from underneath.'
Biggles blinked and shook his head. 'Black, blue, green! How
the dickens many of them were there?' he muttered, in a dazed
voice.
'Seven altogether. We got three of them between us.'
Biggles sat down limply. 'And I only saw one!' he groaned.
'What on earth would have happened to me if I'd been alone?'
Mark laughed. 'Don't worry, you'll soon get the hang of
spotting 'em,' he said. 'You saw that mob coming down on us at
the finish?'
Biggles shook his head, eyes wide open. He couldn't speak.
'You didn't? You ought to have seen those- there must have
been more than a dozen of 'em. Mabs spotted them the instant
they shoved their ugly noses out of the mist, and like a sensible
fellow he streaked for home.'
'Thank goodness he did!' muttered Biggles weakly. 'And I
thought he was merely hurrying home!'
'That's just what he was doing,' observed Mark dryly. 'But let's
go and get some tea- I can do with it!'
Chapter 5
Plots and Plans
Biggles landed his F.E. after a short test flight and glanced in
the direction of the sheds, where Mabs and the rest of the flight
were standing watching him.
A week had elapsed since his first never-to-be-forgotten flight
over the Lines. He had done at least one patrol every day
since, and was already beginning to feel that he was an old
hand at the game. He had picked up the art of war flying with an
aptitude that had amazed everyone, particularly his flight-
commander, who had reported to Major Paynter, the C.O., that
young Biggles seemed to have a sort of second sight where
enemy aircraft were concerned.
He jumped down now from the cockpit and with a brief 'She's
running nicely!' to his fitter, walked quickly towards the flight
shed, where the others were apparently waiting for him.
'Come on!' announced Mabs, with a curious smile. 'There's a
little party on, and we knew you wouldn't like to be left out.'
'You're right!' agreed Biggles. 'What's it about? I like parties.'
'You may not like this one,' said Mabs. 'Stand fast while I get it
off my chest. You know, of course, that headquarters have been
shouting for days about a report they want making on the
railway junction and sidings at Vanfleur?'
'You mean the show that Littleton and Gormsby went on?'
'That's right. As you know, they didn't come back. Neither did
Blake nor Anderson, who went yesterday. Both the other flights
have had a shot at it, and now it's our turn. The Old Man says
I'm not to go, otherwise I shouldn't be here telling you about it.
That means that either you or Marriot or McAngus will have to
go.'
'I'd already worked that out,' replied Biggles. 'Nothing wrong with
that, is there?'
'Nothing! I'm just telling you, that's all. You can settle amongst
yourselves who's going, or if there's any argument about it I
shall have to detail someone for the job. I'm not going to ask for
volunteers, because you'd all volunteer on principle, and nothing
would be decided. But there's two things you've got to
remember. In the first place, it's no use going all the way to
Vanfleur and coming back without learning something. It means
counting every wagon and truck in the siding, and noting any
dumps in the vicinity. In other words, the information has
got to be correct. It's no use guessing or imagining things,
because incorrect information is misleading, and does more harm
than good. The other thing is, it's going to be a tricky show for
the man who goes. Vanfleur is forty miles over the Line, if it's an
inch. You don't need me to tell you that there are more Hun
scouts at Douai than any Boche aerodrome on the front.
Rumour says that Richthofen and his crowd have just moved
to Douai, and maybe that's why the other fellows didn't get back.
Well, there it is. Tell me in
five minutes who's going.'
'I'll go!' said Biggles promptly.
'No, you don't!' replied Mabs quickly. 'I'm not letting anyone
commit suicide just because he thinks it's the right thing to do. I
suggest you toss for it- odd man goes -that's the fairest way, and
then whatever happens there can be no reproaches about it.'
Biggles took a coin from his pocket and the others did the same.
'Spin,' he said, and tossed the coin into the air. The three coins
rang on the concrete.
'Heads,' said Biggles, looking at his own coin.
'Tails,' announced Marriot.
'Same here,' said McAngus.
'That means I'm the boob!' grinned Biggles. 'When do I start?'
'When you like -the sooner the better. I should think first thing in
the morning might be the best time,' suggested Mabs.
'Why do you think that?'
'Well, that's the time these shows are usually done.'
'That's what I thought- and the Huns know that as well as we do.
I'll go this afternoon, just by way of a change, if it's all the same
to you. What do you think, Mark?'
'Suits me!'
'That's that, then!' said Mabs. 'You'd better come with me and tell
the Old Man you're going. He'll want to have a word with you
first. And you'd better come along, too, Mark.'
The CO looked up from his desk when they entered the
squadron office. 'Ah, so it's you, Bigglesworth, and Way. I had
an idea it might be.' He rose to his feet and walked over to them.
'Now look here, you fellows,' he went on.
'There isn't much I can say, but remember that these
shows are not carried out just for the fun of it, or to find us jobs
of work. They are of the greatest possible importance to H.Q., as
they themselves are beginning to admit.' He smiled whimsically,
recalling the days when the military leaders had laughed at the
idea of aeroplanes being of practical value for reconnoitring. 'I
want you to pay particular attention to the rolling stock in the
sidings,' he resumed. 'Also, have a good look at these places
I've marked on the map. Study the last set of photographs we
got of the area- you'll find them in the map-room. You know what
to look out for; make a note of any alterations in the landscape.
'If you see a clump of bushes growing where there were none
last week, when the photos were taken, it probably means that it
is a camouflaged battery. Watch for "blazes" on the grass,
caused by the flash of the guns, and cables leading to the spot.
You will not be able to see telephone wires, of course, but you
may see the shadows cast by the poles, or a row of dots- the
newly turned earth at the foot of each pole. You may see a track
joining the dots- the footmarks and beaten-down grass caused by
the working party. It's easier still to pick out an underground
cable. If the trench has not been filled in, it shows as a clear-cut
line; if it has been filled in, it reveals itself as a sort of woolly
line, blurred at the edges. If you see several such lines of
communication converging on one spot it may mean that there
is an enemy headquarters there.
'Quantities of fresh barbed wire means that the enemy is
expecting to be attacked, and has prepared new positions upon
which to retire. On the other hand, new trenches, saps, dug-
outs, and, more particularly,
light railways, means that he is preparing an offensive. But there,
you should have learned about these things by now so there's
no need for me to go over them again. When have you decided
to go?'
'After lunch, sir,' replied Biggles.
'I thought you'd start in the morning: that's the usual time.'
'Yes, sir; that's why we decided to go this afternoon.'
The C.O. frowned, then a smile spread over his face. 'Good for
you!' he said, nodding approval. 'That's the worst of being out
here a long time; we get into habits without knowing it. Little
points like the one you've just mentioned have been staring us
in the face for so long that we can't see them. All right, then.
Good luck!'
'Come on, Mark!' said Biggles, when they had left the office.
'Let's get the machine ready. Then we can sit back and think
things over until it's time to go.'
It was exactly two o'clock when they took off. The distance to
their objective was, Mabs had said, a full forty miles, and as
they expected to be away at least three hours, they dared not
start later, as it began to get dark soon after four.
For twenty minutes Biggles climbed steeply, crossing and
recrossing the aerodrome as he bored his way upwards,
knowing that the higher they were when they crossed the Lines
the less chance there would be of their being molested; so he
waited until the altimeter was nearly on the eight thousand feet
mark before striking out for the Lines.
A few desultory archie bursts greeted them as they passed over,
and for the next half-hour they had the sky to themselves. It was
a good day for their purpose from one point of view, but a bad
day from another aspect.
Great masses of wet clouds were drifting sluggishly eastwards
at various altitudes- 6,000, 8,000 and even at 10,000 feet- and
while this might afford cover in the event of their being
attacked, it also provided cover for prowling enemy scouts to
lie in wait for them. Again, while it concealed them from the
gunners on the ground, it limited their range of vision and
prevented them from seeing many of the landmarks they had
decided to follow. Moreover, if their objective was concealed
by cloud, they would either have to return with their mission
unfulfilled, or they would have to descend very low, a
dangerous performance so far over enemy territory.
Nevertheless, Biggles had decided that unless enemy
interference made the project hopeless, he would go down to a
thousand feet, if necessary, rather than return with a blank
report, which, rightly or wrongly, would be regarded as failure
by headquarters.
They were now approaching the objective, and Biggles began
to hope that they might achieve their object without firing a
single shot. But the atmosphere rapidly thickened, and he
realized with annoyance that a blanket of mist hung over the
very spot they had come so far and risked so much to view. He
shut off his engine and began a gentle glide.
'I'm going down!' he roared to Mark, who stood up in his seat,
guns ready for action, scanning the atmosphere anxiously in all
directions.
At six thousand feet they sank into the billowing mist, and
Biggles turned his eyes to his instruments, every nerve tense.
5,000-4,000-3,000 feet, and still there was no break, and he knew
he would never be able to climb up through it again without
losing control of the machine. He hoped desperately that he
would find a hole, or at least a thin patch in the cloud, after
their work was accomplished. At two thousand feet he emerged
into a cold, cheerless world, and looked about anxiously for the
railway line. 'There it is!' he yelled, pointing to the right, at the
same time opening up his engine and heading towards it. Mark
had seen the junction at the same instant, and, leaving his
guns, grabbed his note-book and prepared to write.
Whoof, whoof, whoof, barked the archie; but the enemy gunners
were shooting hurriedly, and the shots went wide. Other guns
joined in, and the bursts began to come closer as the gunners
corrected their aim. But Biggles kept the machine on even keel
as he watched the sky around them, while Mark counted the
railway trucks, jotting down his notes as well as his cold hands
and the sometimes swaying machine would permit.
Biggles made a complete circuit around the railway junction,
which was as choc-a-bloc with traffic as only a railway junction
of strategical importance could be in time of war.
Four long trains were in the station itself, two others-one
consisting of open trucks, carrying field artillery-stood in a
siding, with steam up and ready to move. Shells were being
loaded in the other from a great dump.
'Have you finished?' yelled Biggles.
'Go round once more!' bellowed Mark.
Biggles frowned, but proceeded to make another circuit,
twisting and turning from time to time to dodge the ever-
increasing archie and machine-gun bullets. Wish I had a bomb
or two, he thought, as he eyed the great ammunition dump. But
there, no doubt the bombers will arrive in due course, when
we've made our report.
Without warning the archie stopped abruptly. Mark
dropped his pencil, shoved his writing-pad into his pocket, and
grabbed his gun. 'Look out!' he yelled.
But Biggles had already seen them- a big formation of straight-
winged planes sweeping up from the cast. There was no need to
speculate as to their nationality.
'What a mob!' he muttered, and swung round for home. But an
icy hand clutched his heart as he beheld yet another formation
of enemy machines racing towards the spot from the direction of
the Lines. They were cut off.
We stayed too long, he thought bitterly. The people at the
station must have rung up every squadron for miles, and they're
not going to let us get our report home if they can prevent it.
'Well, I can't fight that lot!' he muttered desperately, and, turning
his nose to the northwest, raced away in the only direction open
to him.
Fortunately there was a lot of broken cloud on the horizon, apart
from a big mass overhead, and this, he hoped would help him to
throw the wolves off his trail.
Mark suddenly crouched low behind the gun that fired
backwards over the top 'plane, and began firing in short, sharp
bursts. Biggles winced as a bullet bored through his instrument-
board with a vicious thud. He began side-slipping gently to and
fro to throw the enemy pilots off their mark -a tip that had been
given him on the boat coming over. A faint rattle reached his
ears above the noise of the engine. They're overtaking us, he
thought. Mark signalled frantically to him to climb. He put his
nose down for an instant to gather speed, and then zoomed
upwards. The cold, grey mist enveloped them like a blanket.
'Must be twenty of 'em- albatripes!' yelled Mark.
But Biggles was busy fighting to keep the machine on an even
keel. The bubble of the inclinometer was jumping from one side
to the other in a most alarming way, and the needle of his
compass was swinging violently. 'It's no use-I'll have to go
down!' he yelled. A blast of air struck him on the side of the
face, and he knew he was side-slipping; he rectified the slip, but,
as usual in such cases, he overdid it, and the draught struck his
other cheek. He shot out of the cloud with one wing pointing
straight to the ground.
He picked the machine up while Mark clambered to his feet,
searching the atmosphere behind them. Biggles, snatching a
glance behind him, saw enemy machines scattered all over the
sky to the south-east, still effectually barring their return. No
sooner did the lone F.E. appear than they turned in its direction
and began overhauling it.
'I don't know where we're getting, but I can't face that lot,'
shouted Biggles, still heading north-west. 'We must be miles off
our course.'
The black-crossed machines were closing the gap between them
quickly, so he pushed his nose down and raced towards the low
clouds, now only a short distance away. He reached them just
as a burst of fire from the rear made the F.E. quiver from
propeller-boss to tailskid, and he plunged into the nearest mass
of white, woolly vapour in something like a panic. He came out
on the other side, banked vertically to the left, and plunged into
another.
And so he went on, twisting and turning, sometimes through
and sometimes around the clouds. He dived below them and then
zoomed up again through them. He knew
he was hopelessly lost, but even that, he decided, was better
than facing the overwhelming odds against them.
Mark, still standing up, was examining the sky behind them;
then he held up his fists, thumbs pointing upwards.
'O.K.! We've lost them!',he bellowed.
Biggles breathed a sigh of relief and began to glide down
through the cloud, hoping to pick up some outstanding
landmark that might be recognized from his map. The F.E.
emerged once more into clear air, and he looked down
anxiously. He stared, blinked, and stared again as a dark green
expanse of foam-lashed water met his horrified gaze.
There could be no mistake. He was looking down at the sea.
The clouds, as so often happens, ended abruptly at the coastline,
which revealed itself as a white, surf-lashed line just
behind him. In front of him the sky was a clear, pale blue as far
as he could see.
He thought quickly, feeling for his map, guessing what had
happened. In their long rush to the northwest they had actually
reached the Belgian coast, so he turned to the south, knowing
that sooner or later they were bound to reach France again.
Mark, too, examined his map as Biggles began following the
coastline.
'We shall be all right if the petrol holds out, and if it doesn't get
dark before we can see where we are,' he shouted, and then
settled back in his seat, to resume the eternal task of watching
the sky for enemy machines. Slowly the blue of the sky turned
to misty grey with the approach of dusk, and Biggles came lower in order
not to lose the coast-line.
Suddenly Mark sprang to his feet and swung his gun round to
face the open sea. Biggles, following the line of the gun, saw an
Albatros diving on them out of the mist. Something, it may have
been pure instinct, made him glance in the opposite direction- a
second Albatros was coming in on their left, the landward side.
Two scouts, evidently working together, were launching a dual
attack.
The events of the next thirty seconds followed each other so
swiftly that they outraced Biggles' capacity for thinking. Mark
was shooting steadily at the first scout, which had now opened
fire on them; Biggles was watching the second, which was also
shooting. The pilots of both enemy scouts, evidently old hands
at the game, thrust home their attack so closely that Biggles
instinctively zoomed to avoid collision; but they both swerved
at the last moment in the same direction. They met head-on just
below and in front of the F.E. with a crash that made Biggles
jump. At the same instant his engine cut out dead, and a
pungent, almost overpowering stench of petrol filled his
nostrils. Automatically he put his nose down towards the
shore. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fragments of the
two German scouts strike the water with a terrific splash.
Chapter 6
Late for Dinner.
In the now failing light the coastline, although fairly close, was
not much more than a dark, indistinct mass, with a strip of pale
orange sand, lashed with white foam, running along the edge.
We shall never reach it!' thought Biggles, as he glanced at his
altimeter. It registered one thousand feet.
Mark was standing up, calmly divesting himself of his leather
coat and flying-boots. He tore off the two top pages of his
writing-pad and folded the precious report carefully into a
leather wallet, which he thrust into his. breeches pocket.
He lifted the guns off their mountings and tossed them
overboard, and Biggles knew that he did this for two reasons.
Firstly, to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy, and
secondly, to lighten the machine, and thus give them a better
chance of reaching the shore.
Then Mark looked at Biggles, and, cupping his hands round his
mouth, shouted: 'Get your clothes off. It looks as if we shall
have to swim for it!'
With some difficulty, first holding the joy-stick with one hand
and then the other, Biggles managed to get his coat off and
throw it overboard. Cap, goggles and sheepskin flying-boots
followed.
At the last moment, just as he thought they might reach the
beach, a slant of wind caught them and they
dropped swiftly. He held the machine off as long as he could,
but as it lost flying speed it wobbled and then flopped bodily
into the water. A wave lifted the doomed F.E. like a feather and
rushed it towards the beach; then, as it grated harshly.on the
sand, they jumped clear and struck out for the shore.
Half drowned, Biggles felt a wave roll him over and over. It
dropped him on all fours on solid ground, and he dug his
fingers into the sand as he felt the backwash sucking him back
again. Mark, who was heavier, grabbed him by the collar and
clung to him desperately until the wave had receded. Crawling,
swaying, stumbling and falling, they managed to reach the
beach, gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of sea-water.
'My hat, isn't it cold!' muttered Biggles through chattering
teeth.
'Come on, get on your feet- they'll be here any minute. They
must have seen us come down!' snapped Mark; and at a reeling
gait in their water-logged clothes they hurried towards the wide
sand dunes which line that part of the Belgian coast.
'What's the hurry?' panted Biggles.
'The Huns will be here any minute- we're still the wrong side of
the Lines!'
Hardly had they plunged into the bewildering valleys of the
dunes than they heard the sound of harsh, guttural voices
coming towards them.
'Down!' hissed Mark, and they flung themselves flat in the
coarse, scrubby grass that grew in patches on the sand. It was
now nearly dark, so there was still just a chance that they might
escape observation.
Biggles clenched his teeth tightly in order to restrain their
chattering, which he thought would betray them,
while the voices passed not more than ten yards away and
receded in the direction of the shore.
For twenty minutes or more they lay while dark figures loomed
around them, going towards or returning from the beach. One
party came so close that Biggles held his breath, expecting to
feel a heavy boot in the small of his back at any moment.
'What are we going to do? I shall freeze to death if we stay here
much longer!' he whispered as the footsteps receded.
'So shall I if it comes to that,' muttered Mark. 'I'm dead from the
feet up. But our only chance is to lie still and hope that they'll
think we were drowned. They must have seen the two Albatripes
attack us, and for all they know we might have been wounded.
There are bound to be people on the beach for some time
watching for the bodies of those two Boche pilots. We shall
have to put up with the cold for a minute or two while people are
moving about. When it gets a bit darker we'll crawl to the top of a
dune and see if we can see what's going on.'
Another quarter of an hour passed, and at last it was really dark,
except for the feeble light of a crescent moon low in the sky.
With a whispered 'Come on!' Mark began crawling up the
sloping side of the nearest sand dune, and Biggles followed,
glad to be moving at last. Side by side they reached the top, and,
raising their heads slowly, peered round. Not a soul was in sight
except on the beach, where a small group of figures could just be
made out watching the remains of the F.E being pounded to
pieces by the surf. Some debris had evidently been salved, for it
lay in a pile just beyond the reach of the waves.
'They must think we were drowned or there'd be
more activity,' breathed Mark. 'Our only chance now is to work
our way along the coast. It might be better if we waited a bit
longer, but we can't do that or we shall be frozen to death.
Anyway, we've got to be round the wire before morning or we
shall certainly be spotted.'
'Wire-what wire?' asked Biggles.
'The barbed wire between the Lines. I'm not absolutely certain
but I think I saw it as we came down; I was on the look-out for it.
If I'm right, it's only about a mile farther along. Confound those
two Huns; in another five minutes we should have been well
over the Lines.'
'Shall we be able to get through the wire, do you think?' asked
Biggles.
'We shall not. I hear they have tightened things up a good deal
along here lately, owing to escaped prisoners working their way
back along the coast. Somebody told me they've got little bells
hung all along the wire, and you can't touch it without ringing
them. In any case, we should need rubber gloves because the
Huns are electrifying their wire. No, I'm afraid we shall have to
go round it.'
'Round it!'
'Yes, round it. It's been done before by swimming round and it's our only chance.'
Biggles groaned. 'Fancy having to get into that water again! I'd
sooner face the biggest formation of Huns that ever took the air.
I had no idea water could be so cold. I nearly joined the Navy
once; I'm thundering glad I didn't!' he grumbled.
'Don't grouse-we're lucky to be alive!' muttered Mark. 'Come on,
now, no noise!'
Crouching and crawling, they began to wind their
way through the dunes, taking a peep over the top whenever an
opportunity presented itself in order to keep direction, which
lay parallel to the shore. Sometimes they were able to walk a few
yards, but on other occasions they had to worm their way like
snakes across open spaces. Once they had to lie flat as a squad
of troops, evidently a working party, passed within a few yards
of them.
At last Mark raised himself up and peered forward. 'I think I can
see the wire just ahead,' he breathed, 'but we can't get any
farther along here. There must be a trench just in front, because I
can hear people talking. We'd better get down to the water.'
'Lead on,' breathed Biggles. 'I can't be any colder than I am
already!'
Dragging themselves along on their stomachs, often stopping to
listen, they wormed their way to the water's edge.
'How far can you swim?' whispered Mark.
'I don't know,' admitted Biggles. 'I've never found it necessary to
find out.'
'You'll have to chance it, then. I can swim pretty well any
distance, but not when it's as cold as this. I was brought up by
the sea. If you feel your strength giving out, hang on to my
collar and we'll get round or sink together. We shall have to get
out just beyond the breakers, and then swim parallel to the
coast. As soon as we see our own wire we'll come ashore. If we
don't see it, we'll swim as far as we can. But the Lines can't be
very far apart-come on!'
They plunged into the icy water and struck out through, the
blinding spray. Biggles paid little or no attention to the direction,
but simply fixed his eyes on
the black head bobbing in front of him and followed it.
How long they swam he did not know, but it seemed to be an
eternity and he was just about to call out that he could go no
farther when Mark turned shorewards. Biggles made one last
despairing dash through the surf, and then lay panting and
gasping like a stranded fish.
Mark seized him by the collar and dragged him out of the reach
of the waves. 'Get up!' he snapped.
'Wait-a minute-let me-get-breath!' panted Biggles.
Mark dragged him roughly to his feet. 'Run!' he said. 'We shall
have to start our blood moving, or we shall both be down with
pneumonia. I think we're round both lots of wire; if we aren't
then we're unstuck, that's all about it.'
Without waiting for any more he set off at a steady trot along
the sand, Biggles reeling behind him, their clothes squelching
and discharging water at every step.
'Halte la!'
They pulled up with a jerk as the challenge rang out.
'Friend-ami!' yelled Biggles desperately, but joyfully, for he
knew the language was not German.
'Attendez!' called the voice, and they heard the jangle of military
equipment. A dark figure, closely followed by several others,
loomed up in the darkness in front of them, rifles and bayonets
held at the ready.
'You do the talking!' growled Mark. 'I can't speak the lingo!'
'je suis-nous ont-Anglais', began Biggles in his best French.
'Aviateurs- aviateurs Anglais.'
There was a sharp intake of breath, and a flashlight
stabbed the darkness. The figures closed around them and they
were hurried a short distance into a trench, and then into a
dugout, where an officer in a blue uniform sat writing.
Quickly, in a strange mixture of English and broken French,
Biggles told his story to the Belgian officer. He eyed them
suspiciously at first, but at the end of the story he made a brief
telephone call which seemed to satisfy him.
The dripping clothes were stripped off the two airmen,
blankets were produced, and boiling soup, in great basins,
thrust into their hands.
An hour later a British staff officer stepped into the dugout.
'Who are you?' he asked curtly, obviously suspicious. But
suspicion quickly gave way to friendliness as the two airmen
told their story.
Mark handed over his report, which, although wet, was still
legible. 'I wish you'd get that back as quickly as you can, sir,'
he said. 'We've been through some trouble to get it!'
'You can bring it yourself,' the officer told him. 'I have a car
waiting a little way back. But you'll have to borrow some
clothes if our Belgian friends can provide them. You can't put
those wet ones on again!'
Dinner was in progress when Biggles and Mark, attired in mixed
Belgian uniforms, arrived at their aerodrome. They opened the
mess door, and amid dead silence, with all eyes on them, they
marched stiffly to the head of the table, where the C.O. sat, and
apologized for being late for dinner.
The C.O. stared at them, while a babble of voices broke out,
punctuated with laughs, that finally swelled into a roar in which
everyone joined. Mark, who had
seen such a scene before, knew that the laughter was simply
the British way of expressing relief after they had been given up
for lost.
But Biggles turned a pained face to the room.
'What's the joke?' he cried hotly. 'Do you think we're all dressed
up for the fun of it?'
A fresh burst of laughter greeted his words.
'Everyone's glad to see you back, that's all!' said the C.O. 'And
that's the chief thing. Did you get a report on the junction?'
'Yes, sir,' replied Mark.
'That's splendid! Sit down and have your dinners. You can tell
us all about it afterwards!'
Chapter 7
A Daring Stunt
'I'm not going to pretend that I know much about it, but it seems
to me that if the Huns are going to mass their squadrons- as
apparently they are- we shall have to do the same or else be
wiped out.' Biggles, having ventured an opinion for the first
time since he joined the squadron, glanced up, half-expecting a
remark about his inexperience.
'He's right!' exclaimed Mabs emphatically. 'I've been saying the
same thing for the last month. Richthofen, they say, has
grouped three squadrons together, including all the best pilots
in the German Air Force. And, whether he has or not, we know
for a fact that he's sailing up and down the Lines with thirty
triplanes tagged on behind him. Who's going to face that
bunch? Who's going to take on that little lot, I'd like to know?
What chance has an ordinary Line patrol of three planes got if it
bumps into that pack?'
'Rot!' snapped Captain Rayner, of C Flight. 'The more the
merrier! Dive straight into the middle of them and the formation
will go to pieces. It will take them all their time to avoid
collision.'
'Don't kid yourself!' declared Captain Allen of B Flight. 'They've
got this game weighed up nicely. They
didn't wait for us to bump into them this morning, they bumped
into us and we jolly soon knew about it!'
There was silence for a moment, due to the fact that B Flight
had lost two machines that very morning through the menace
they were discussing.
'I think it's a logical conclusion that if we start sending big
patrols of twenty or thirty machines against them they'll start
flying in fifties or more. Whatever we do, they will maintain
numerical superiority, and at the finish formations will be flying
in hundreds. A nice sort of game that will be!' declared Marriot
disgustedly.
'Well, it may come to that some day, but if it does I hope I'm not
here to see it,' observed Allen coldly.
The ante-room door opened and an orderly appeared. 'Major
Paynter's compliments, and will all officers please report to the
squadron office at once?'
There was a general move towards the door.
The Major was in earnest conversation with Toddy, the
Recording Officer, when they arrived, but he broke off and
turned to face them as they entered.
'Well, gentlemen,' he said, 'I've some news for you, though
whether you'll regard it as good or bad I don't know. Will all
those officers who have had any experience of night-flying
please take a pace to the front'
Mabs, a pilot of B Flight, and a pilot and observer of C Flight
stepped forward.
'That's worse than I expected,' said the Major. 'Never mind; this
is the position. Whether we like it or not, Wing have decided to
carry out certain operations that can best be done at night. As
you know, enemy scout squadrons have been concentrated
opposite this sector of the Front, and our machines have neither
the performance nor numerical strength of theirs. In these
circumstances we are going to try to cripple them on the
ground. It is thought that night raids will adversely affect their
morale, to say nothing of the damage we may cause on their
machines or aerodromes. It's proposed to carry out the first raid
on a very big scale; other squadrons will participate and keep
the ball rolling all night. In order to put as large a number of
machines in the air as possible, this squadron will take part in
the raid, which will be on Douai Aerodrome, the headquarters of
the Richthofen group.
'Fortunately, our machines are well adapted for night-flying, so
for the next two nights I shall want all officers to put in as much
practice in the air as possible. It's up to everyone to make
himself proficient in the new conditions. Flares will be put out,
and lectures will be arranged, which must be attended by all
officers on the station. Has anyone any questions to ask?'
'I take it that the attack will be in the form of a bomb raid, sir?'
said Biggles.
'We shall attack with all arms-heavy bombs, Cooper bombs,
baby incendiaries*, and machine-guns. Naturally, it is in our
own interest to make a good job of the show; if things go
according to plan, we shall meet with less opposition when we
resume daylight patrols. That's all.'
'Well, that's the answer to the question!' observed Mark
brightly, when they were outside.
'What question?'
'The thing we were talking about in the mess when
the C.O. sent for us- the big Boche formations. We're going to
swipe them on the ground!'
'Well, it may be all right,' replied Biggles thoughtfully, 'but we
could have wiped them out in daylight shows if it comes to that.
I'm thinking that there is one thing the staff people may have
overlooked.'
'What's that?'
'You don't imagine for one moment that the Huns will take this
night-strafing business lying down, do you? If I know anything
about 'em they'll soon be showing us that it's a game two can
play. You mark my words, they'll be over here the next night,
handing us doses of our own medicine-in spoonfuls. I hope I'm
mistaken, but I reckon things will be getting warmish here
presently!'
'Well, the staff won't mind that; they wont be here,' observed
Mark bitterly. 'I must say I don't fancy being archied at night;
the flashes look ghastly. I've been told that they are a nice
bright orange when they are close to you, and a beautiful dull
crimson when they're some distance away.'
'We shall soon be able to see for ourselves whether your
information is correct,' returned Biggles. 'As long as they're not
pink with blue spots on 'em I don't mind!'
The weather on the night decided for the first raid was all that
could be desired, considering the time of the year. There was no
wind, and a new moon shone brightly in a clear, frosty, star-
spangled sky, against which the hangars loomed as black
silhouettes.
By the C.O.'s orders not a light gleamed anywhere, for every
step was being taken to prevent information of the impending
raid from reaching the enemy through
the many spies whose duty it was to report such operations.
An engine roared suddenly in the darkness, and the end
machine of a long line that stood in front of the hangars began
to waddle, in the ungainly fashion of aeroplanes on the ground,
towards the point allocated for the take-off; a dark red,
intermittent flame, curled back from the exhaust-pipe.
'There goes Mabs,' said Biggles, who, with Mark his gunner,
was standing by their machine.
The planes were to leave at five-minute intervals, which gave
each aircraft a chance to get clear before the next one took off,
and so lessened the chances of a collision either on the ground
or in the air.
'Marriot goes next, and then McAngus, so we've got a quarter
of an hour to wait,' went on Biggles. 'It's going to be perishing
cold if I know anything about it,' he remarked, glancing up at the
frosty sky. 'But there, we can't have it all ways. We shall at least
be able to see where we are, and that's a lot better than groping
our -way in and out of clouds; that's bad enough in the day-
time! Hallo! There goes Marriot!'
A second machine taxied out and roared up into the darkness.
'Mabs has got to the Line- look!' said Mark, pointing to a cluster
of twinkling yellow lights in the distant sky. 'That's archie!'
Lines of pale green balls seemed to be floating lazily upwards.
'Look at the onions,' he added, referring to the well known
enemy anti-aircraft device commonly known as flaming onions.
A third machine taxied out and vanished into the gloom.
'Well, there goes McAngus; we'd better see about getting
started up,' said Biggles tersely.
They climbed into their cockpits, and mechanics ran to their
wings and propeller.
'Switch off!'
The engine hissed and gurgled as the big propeller was dragged
round to suck the gas into the cylinders.
'Contact!' cried the mechanic.
'Contact!' echoed Biggles.
There was a sharp explosion as the engine came to life; then it
settled down to the musical purr peculiar to the Beardmore type.
For a few minutes they sat thus, giving the engine time to warm
up; then Biggles opened the throttle a trifle and pointed to his
right wing- the signal to the mechanics that he wanted it held in
order to slew the machine round to the right. While a machine is
on the ground with the engine running all orders are given by
signals, for the human voice would be lost in the noise of the
engine; even if it was heard, the words might not be
distinguished clearly, and an accident result.
With his nose pointing towards the open aerodrome, Biggles
waved both hands above his head, the signal to the mechanics
to stand clear. The F.E. raced across the aerodrome, and then
roared up into the starry night.
He did not waste time climbing for height over the aerodrome,
but headed straight for the Lines, climbing as he went. Peering
below, he could see the countryside about them almost as
plainly as in day-time; here and there the lighted windows of
cottages and farms stood out brightly in the darkness; far ahead
he could see the track of the three preceding machines by the darting flashes of
archie that followed them.
A British searchlight flashed a challenge to him as he passed
over it, but Mark was ready, and replied at once with the colour
of the night- a Very light that first burnt red and then changed to
green. 'O.K.O.K.' flashed the searchlight in the Morse code,
and they pursued their way for a time unmolested.
Biggles crouched a little lower in his seat as the first archies
began to flash around them. It reached a crescendo as they
crossed the Line, augmented by the inevitable flaming onions
that rose up vertically from below like white-hot cannon-balls;
but the turmoil soon faded away behind them as they sped on
through the night over enemy territory, the Beardmore engine
roaring sullen defiance. From time to time he peered below to
pick up his landmarks, but for the most part he stared straight
ahead, eyes probing the gloom for other machines.
The planes, of course, carried no lights, and although the
chances of collision were remote, with machines of both sides
going to and fro all the time, it was an ever present possibility.
In night raids it was usual for the machines taking part to return
by a difFerent route, or at a higher altitude to the one taken on
the outward journey, and while machines adhered to this
arrangement, collision was impossible.
Biggles was, of course, aware of this, but he kept an anxious
eye on his line of flight in case an enemy machine had decided
to take the same route as himself, but in the opposite direction,
or in case Marriot or McAngus had got off their course.
Mark suddenly rose to his feet and pointed with outstretched
finger. Far away, almost on the horizon,
it seemed, a shaft of flame had leapt high into the air; the sky
glowed redly from the conflagration, and Biggles knew that one
of the machines preceding him had either reached its
destination and set fire to the hangars, or had itself been shot
down in flames.
The fire, however, served one good purpose, for it acted as a
beacon that would guide them direct to their objective. It
continued to blaze fiercely as they approached it, and presently
the crew of the F.E. were able to see that it was actually on
Douai Aerodrome. It looked like one of the hangars. Keeping on
a line that would bring him right over it Biggles throttled back
and began gliding down.
Orders had stated that machines should descend as low as five
hundred feet, if necessary, to be reasonably sure of hitting the
target; but the thrill of the game was in his blood, and he no
longer thought of orders. At five hundred feet he shoved, the
throttle open wide, and, pushing the stick forward, swept down
so low that Mark, in the front seat, stared back over his
shoulder in amazement.
The instant he opened his throttle an inferno seemed to break
loose about the machine. Anti-aircraft guns and even field-guns
situated on the edge of the aerodrome spat their hate; machine-
guns rattled like castanets, the tracer bullets cutting white
pencil lines through the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye
Biggles saw Mark crouch low over his gun and heard it break
into its staccato chatter.
He grabbed the bomb-toggle as the first hangar leapt into view,
and, steadying the machine until the ridge of the roof appeared
at the junction of his fuselage and the leading edge of the lower
plane, he jerked it upwards-one, two.
Two 112-pound bombs swung off their racks, and the machine
wobbled as it was relieved of their weight. Straight along over
the hangars the F.E. roared, while Mark stood up and threw the
baby incendiaries overboard.
When they came to the end of the line, Biggles zoomed up in a
wide turn and tore out of the vicinity, twisting and turning like a
wounded bird. Only when the furious bombardment had died
away behind them did he lean over the side of his cockpit and
look back at the aerodrome. His heart leapt with satisfaction, for
two hangars were blazing furiously, the flames leaping high into
the sky and casting a lurid glow on the surrounding landscape.
A body of men was working feverishly to get some aeroplanes
out of one of the burning hangars; a machine that had
evidently been standing outside when the attack was launched
had been blown over on its back; several figures were prone on
the ground, and one man was crawling painfully away from the
heat of the fire.
'Well, that should make things easy for the others; they can't
very well miss that little bonfire!' mused Biggles with
satisfaction. Shells started bursting again in the air on the far
side of the aerodrome, and he knew that Captain Allen, in the
leading machine of B Flight, was approaching to carry on the
good work.
'If our people are going to keep that up all night, those fellows
down there will have nasty tastes in their mouths by the
morning!' called Biggles, smiling; but the next instant the smile
had given way to a frown of anxiety as a new note crept into the
steady drone of the engine.
Looking back over his shoulder his heart missed a
beat as he saw a streamer of flame sweeping aft from one of the
cylinders. Mark had seen it, too, and was staring at him
questioningly, his face shining oddly pink in the glow.
Biggles throttled back a trifle and the flame became smaller, but
the noise continued and the machine began to vibrate.
'It feels as if they've either blown one of my jampots off or else
a bullet has knocked a hole through the water jacket,' he yelled.
'If it will last for another half hour, all right! If it doesn't, we're in
the soup!'
With the throttle retarded he was creeping along at a little
more than stalling speed, so he tried opening it again gently.
Instantly a long streamer of fire leapt out of the engine, and the
vibration became so bad that it threatened to tear the engine
from its bearers. With a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach he snatched the throttle back to its original position,
and shook his head at Mark as the only means he had of telling
him that he was unable to overcome the trouble.
The noise increased until it became a rattling jar, as if a tin of
nails was being shaken. A violent explosion behind caused him
to catch his breath, and he retarded the throttle still farther, with
a corresponding loss of speed. He had to tilt his nose down in
order to prevent the machine from stalling, and he knew that he
was losing height too fast to reach home.
He moistened his lips and stared into the darkness ahead, for it
had been arranged that a 'lighthouse' should flash a beam at
regular intervals to guide the bombers back to their nest.
Watching, he saw a glow on the skyline wax and wane, but it
was still far away.
He looked at his altimeter; it registered two thousand five
hundred feet. Could he do it? He thought not, but he could try.
The rattle behind him and the vibration grew rapidly worse; it
became a definite pulsating jolt that threatened to shake the
machine to pieces at any moment. But he could see the Lines in
the distance now, or rather, the trench system, where the patrols
on either side were watching or trying to repair their barbed
wire.
Two loud explosions in quick succession and a blinding sheet
of flame leapt from the engine and made him throttle right back
with frantic haste.
'Well, if we're down, we're down!' he muttered savagely. 'But
I'm not going to sit up here and be fried to death for anybody;
the Huns can shoot us if they like when we're on the ground,
and that's better than being roasted like a joint of meat on the
spit.'
Looking behind him he could see flames from the engine
playing on his tail unit, and he knew that if he tried to remain in
the air it was only a matter of seconds before the whole thing
took fire. He switched off altogether and began gliding down
through the darkness, straining his eyes in an efFort to see
what lay beneath.
In the uncanny silence he could hear the reports of
the guns on the ground, and even hear the rattle of machine-
gun fire. A searchlight probed the sky like a trembling white
finger, searching for him, and archie began to illuminate the
surrounding blackness.
Mark, the ever-practical, was calmly preparing for the inevitable
end, and even in that desperate moment Biggles wondered if
there was anything that could shake Mark out of his habitual
calmness. He picked up the machine guns, one after the other,
and threw them overboard; the Huns would be welcome to what was left
of them after their eight-hundred-foot fall. The ammunition
drums followed. He tore up his maps, threw them into the air
and watched them swirl away aft.
Biggles felt in the canvas pocket inside the cockpit, then took
out his own maps, ripped them across, and sent the pieces after
Mark's. He thrust his loaded Very pistol into his pocket in
readiness to send a shot into the petrol tank of the machine as
soon as they were on the ground -providing they were not
knocked out in the crash.
The destruction of his machine to prevent it falling into the
hands of the enemy is the first duty of an airman who lands in
hostile territory.
The sky around them became an inferno of darting flames and
hurtling metal. Several pieces of shrapnel struck the machine,
and it quivered like a terrified horse. Once the F.E. was nearly
turned-upside down by a terrific explosion under the port wing-
tip. 400-300-200 feet ran the altimeter. Mark was leaning over the
side staring into the blackness below them.
Biggles could distinguish nothing; the earth looked like a dark
indigo stain, broken only by the flashes of guns and the
intermittent spurts of machine-guns. He no longer looked at his
altimeter, for he knew he was too low for it to be of any
assistance; he could only keep his eyes glued below and hope
for the best.
Suddenly, the shadow that was the earth swept up to meet him.
He pulled the joy-stick back until the machine was flying on an
even keel. It began to sink as it lost flying speed, then
staggered like a drunken animal. He lifted his knees to his chin,
covered his face with his arms, and waited for the end. For a
moment there was silence, broken only by the faint hum of the wires and the
rumble of the guns.
Crash! With a crunching, tearing, rending scream of protest, the
machine struck the ground and subsided in a heap of debris.
The nacelle, in which the crew sat, buried its nose into the
earth, reared up, then turned turtle.
Biggles soared through space and landed with a dull squelch in
a sea of mud, but he had scrambled to his feet in an instant,
wiping the slime from his eyes with the backs of his gauntlets.
'Mark-Mark!' he hissed. 'Where are you, Mark? Are you hurt,
old man?'
'Hold hard, I'm coming! Don't make such a row, you fool!'
snarled Mark, dragging himself clear of the debris and
unwinding a wire that had coiled around his neck.
Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
A very light soared upwards, and half a dozen machine-guns
began their vicious stutter somewhere near at hand; bullets
began splintering into the tangled wreck of the machine and
zipping into the mud like a swarm of angry hornets.
'Come on, let's get out of this!' Gasped Mark. 'Run for it; the
artillery will open up any second!'
'Run! Where to'?' panted Biggles.
'Anywhere-to get away from here!' snapped Mark, slithering
and sliding through the ooze.
Whee-e-e -Bang! The first shell arrived with the noise of an
express train and exploded with a roar like the end of the world.
Biggles took a flying leap into a shellhole and wormed his way
into the mud at the bottom like a mole. He grunted as Mark
landed on top of him.
'Why-the dickens-don't you look-where you're
going!' he spluttered, as they squelched side by side in the
sludge; while the shell-torn earth rocked under the onslaught
from the artillery.
'We're all right here,' announced Mark firmly . 'They say a shell
never lands in the same place twice.'
'I wish I knew that for a fact,' muttered Biggles. 'This is what
comes of night-flying. Night birds, eh? Great jumping mackerel,
we're a couple of owls all right; an owl's got enough sense to
stay-'
'Shut up!' snarled Mark, as the bombardment grew less intense,
and then suddenly died away. 'Let's see where we are,' he
whispered, as an eerie silence settled over the scene.
'See where we are? Have you any idea where we are?'
'Hark!'
They held their breaths and listened, but no sound reached
their ears.
'I thought I heard someone coming,' breathed Mark. 'This is
awful, not knowing which side of the lines we're on!'
They crept up to the lip of the shell-crater and stared into the
surrounding darkness. A Very light soared upwards from a spot
about a hundred yards away. Biggles, peering under his hand
in the glare, distinctly saw a belt of barbed wire a few yards
away on their left. Mark, who was looking in the other direction,
gripped his arm in a vice-like clutch.
'Huns!' he whispered. 'There's a party of them coming this way.
I could tell them by the shape of their helmets. Come on, this
way!'
They started crawling warily towards the wire, but when they
reached it, finding no opening, they commenced crawling
parallel with it, freezing into a death-like
stillness whenever a Very light cast its weird glow over the
scene.
'Those Huns were coming from the opposite direction, so this
should be our side,' muttered Mark.
'Don't talk,' whispered Biggles, 'let's keep going; this looks like a
gap in the wire.'
By lying flat on the ground so that the obstruction was
silhouetted against the sky, they could see a break in the ten
feet wide belt of barbed wire, where it had evidently been torn
up by shell-fire. They crawled through the breach, then paused
to listen with straining ears.
'I can hear someone talking ahead of us; they must be in a
trench,' whispered Mark.
'So can I; let's get closer,' whispered Biggles. 'Ssh there it is! I
can see the parapet. We shall have to go carefully, or we may
be shot by our own fellows.' He raised himself on his hands and
was about to call out: in fact, he had opened his mouth to do so-
when a sound reached their ears that seemed to freeze the
blood in their veins.
It was a harsh, coarse voice, speaking in a language
they did not understand, but which they had no
difficulty in recognizing as German. It came from the
parapet a few yards in front of them.
A line of bayonets and then a body of men rose up in the
darkness at the edge of the trench; there was no mistaking the
coal-scuttle helmets.
Neither of the airmen spoke; as one man they sank to the
ground, forcing themselves into the cold mud, and lay
motionless. Heavy footsteps squelched through the mud
towards them; a voice was speaking in a low undertone. Nearer
and nearer they came, until Biggles felt the muscles of his back
retract to receive the stabbing pain of a bayonet-thrust. He nearly cried out as a heavy
foot descended on his hand, but his gauntlet and the soft mud
under it saved the bones from being broken. The German
stumbled, recovered, half-glanced over his shoulder to see what
had tripped him; but, seeing what he supposed to be a corpse,
turned and walked quickly after the others.
'Phew!' gasped Biggles, as the footsteps receded into the
distance.
'Let's get out of this!' muttered Mark. 'They may be back any
moment. Another minute and we should have walked straight
into their trench. Hark!'
The hum of an F.E. reached their ears, and although they could
not see it they could follow its path.of flight by the archic
bursts and the sound. It was coming from the direction of the
German trench. It passed straight over them; the archie died
away, and presently the sound faded into the night.
'That's one of our fellows going home, so it gives us our
direction if we can only find a way through our own wire. If
there isn't a gap, we're sunk; so we might crawl along this
blinking wire to Switzerland!'
'Ssh!'
Once more the sound of footsteps reached them from
somewhere near at hand, but they could see nothing.
'I can't stand much more of this!' growled Biggles. 'It's giving me
the creeps. I've just crawled over somebody-or something that
was somebody.'
Bang! They both jumped and then lay flat as another Very light
curved high into the air; in its dazzling light Biggles distinctly
saw a group of German soldiers, evidently a patrol, standing
quite still, not more than fifty yards away. Suddenly he
remembered something. He groped in his pocket, whipped out
his own Very pistol, took careful aim, and fired. The light in the air went out at
the same moment. The shot from Biggles' pistol dropped in the
mud a hundred yards away, where it lay hissing in a cloud of
red smoke that changed gradually to a ghastly, livid green.
'You fool, what are you at?' snarled Mark. 'I thought I was shot.'
'Didn't you see those Huns? I bet I've made them jump!'
'They'll probably make us jump in a minute!' retorted Mark.
Would have done if I hadn't fired that Very light at 'em, you
mean!' retorted Biggles. 'Nothing like getting in the first shot.
Makes the other fellow scary. We've been walked over by one
crowd and treated as bloomin' doormats. I don't want a second
dose of that!'
'You'll get a dose of something else if those Huns poodle along
here to inquire what the fireworks are for!' replied Mark.
'If!' jeered Biggles. 'I'll bet those chaps are legging it for home
for all they're worth. An' I don't blame 'em. I'd do the same
myself if I jolly well knew where home was.'
'You'll never live to see home again if you don't stop playing the
silly ass!' growled Mark. 'And now shut up and listen. See if
you can hear anybody talking in a language we understand.'
For some time the two airmen remained still, lying on the ground
and listening intently for the sound of voices. But they could
hear nothing save the occasional banging of rifles. At last
Biggles grew impatient.
'Well, I'm not going to stay messing about here any longer!' he
snapped. 'We'll settle things one way or the other. I will start to
get light presently, and then we're
done for. I believe that's our wire just in front of us. What about
letting out a shout to see if our fellows are within earshot?'
'The Huns will hear us, too.'
'I can't help that. Hold tight, I'm going to yell. Hallo, there!' he
bellowed. 'Is anybody about?'
A reply came from a spot so close that Biggles instinctively
ducked.
'What are you bleating abart?' said a Cockney voice calmly.
'You come any closer to me and I'll give you something to holler
for. You can't catch me on that hop!'
Bang! A rifle blazed in the darkness, not ten yards away, and a
bullet whistled past Biggles' head.
'Hi! That's enough of that!' he shouted. 'We're British officers, I
tell you- fliers. We crashed outside the wire and can't get
through. Come and show us the way!'
'Why didn't you say so before?' came the reply. 'You might 'ave
got 'urt. 'Old 'ard a minute! But you keep your 'ands up, and no
half-larks!'
Silence fell.
'He's either coming himself, or he's gone to fetch someone,'
muttered Mark. 'We can't blame him for being suspicious. He
must have been in the listening post, which is where people
shoot first and ask questions afterwards. The Huns get up to all
sorts of tricks.'
'Where are you, you fellows?' suddenly said a quiet voice near
them.
'Here we are!' answered Biggles.
'Stand fast-I'm coming.'
An officer, revolver in hand, closely followed by half a dozen
Tommies wearing the unmistakable British tin helmets,
loomed up suddenly in the darkness.
'How many of you are there?' said the voice.
'Two,' replied Biggles shortly.
'All right, follow me-and dont make a row about it.'
Squelching through the ooze, they followed the officer through
a zigzag track in the wire. The Tommies closed in behind them.
A trench, from which projected a line of bayonets, lay across
their path, but at a word from their escort the rifles were
lowered, and the two airmen half-slipped and half scrambled
into the trench. The beam of a flash-lamp cut through the
darkness and went slowly over their faces and uniforms.
'You look a couple of pretty scarecrows, I must say,' said a
voice, with a chuckle. 'Come into my dugout and have a rest. I'll
send a runner to headquarters with a request that they ring up
your squadron and tell them you're safe. What have you been
up to?'
'Oh-er-night flying, that's all. just night flying!' said
Biggles airily.
Chapter 8
The Dawn Patrol
Biggles opened his eyes drowsily as a hand shook his shoulder
respectfully but firmly. At the back of his sleep soaked mind he
knew it was his batman calling him.
'Come on, sir!' said the voice. 'It's six o'clock! Patrol leaves at
half-past!'
Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth (Biggles for short) stared at
the man coldly. 'Push off!' he said, and nestled lower under the
bedclothes.
'Come on, now, sir, drink your tea!' The batman held out the cup
invitingly.
Biggles swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering as
the cold air struck his warm limbs, and took tea.
'What's the weather like?' he asked.
'Not too good, sir, lot of cloud about, but no rain as yet!'
Satisfied that his officer was really awake, the batman departed.
Biggles stood up and pulled his sweater on. He glanced across
the room at Mark Way, who had already been called, but was
fast asleep again and snoring gently. He picked up his pillow
and heaved it at the peaceful face of his flying partner.
Instead of hitting the slumbering Mark, it swept a row of
ornaments from the shelf above his head. There was a fearful
crash as they scattered in all directions.
Mark leapt up in bed as if impelled by an invisible spring.
'What th-' he began, looking about him wildly.
Biggles, who was brushing his hair in front of a cracked mirror,
side-stepped quickly to avoid the pillow as it came back, hurled
by a vigorous arm. It caught the half-empty tea-cup and swept it
into the middle of his bed. He looked at the marksman
in disgust.
'Rotten shot!' he said. 'Your shooting on the ground is worse
than it is in the air, and that's saying something!'
'Can't you fellows get up without making such an infernal din?'
snarled an angry voice from the far end of the room. 'This place
is like a madhouse when A Flight are on an early show. You two
should save your energy; you'll need it presently, when Rayner
gets going.'
'Rayner- what's Rayner got to do with me?' asked Biggles, in
surprise, as he pulled on his sheepskin boots.
'Mapleton is going to have a tooth drawn this morning, so he
has had to report sick. I heard him talking to the Old Man about
it last night. Rayner is going to lead your show this morning.'
'I see,' said Biggles. 'Well, it'll be a change for him to find his
Flight sticking to his tail instead of scattering all over the sky
when a Hun heaves into sight.'
He ducked to avoid a cake of soap hurled by a member of C
Flight, of which Captain Rayner was in command, and departed.
He hurried to the sheds and started the engine of his F.E.2b two-
seater plane. Mark came out of the armoury carrying his gun,
which he proceeded to test, and Captain Rayner appeared at the
corner of A Flight hangar.
'It's right, then!' Biggles muttered to Mark. 'Mabs isn't doing the
show-here's Rayner!'
'What about it?' grunted Mark, from the cockpit, where he was
carefully arranging his ammunition drums.
'I suppose he'll try to show us what a hot-stuff merchant he is,
that's all. And it's a bit too early in the morning for fireworks,'
answered Biggles.
Captain Rayner climbed into his machine, looked around to see
that the others were in place, taxied out on to the aerodrome,
and roared into the air. The three other machines that were to
form the dawn patrol took off behind him, heading towards the
distant trenches of the western battlefront.
The grey light of early morning grew stronger, and before the
Lines were reached the sun was shining brightly. A strong
wind was blowing from the west, bringing with it masses of
cloud like great white cauliflowers, gleaming with gold and
yellow at the top, merging into dark blue and purple at the base.
Here and there the ground was still obscured by long grey
blankets of ground mist, through which the earth showed in
pale greens and browns.
The patrol climbed for some time before approaching the Lines,
the leader making his way towards one of the strips of blue sky
that here and there showed through the mass of cloud. They
entered the opening at five thousand feet, and then
corkscrewed upwards, climbing steeply as though through a
hollow tube to the top side of the cloud. Then the four
machines levelled out and headed eastward.
Biggles, looking over the side, could see mile after mile of rolling
white clouds, like great masses of cotton wool, stretching away
to the infinite distance where
they cut a hard line against the blue sky. Below them, their four
grey shadows, each surrounded by a complete rainbow, raced at
incredible speed over the top of the gleaming vapour.
As far as he could see there were no other machines in the sky,
although he was not quite certain if they had actually crossed
the Lines yet. But Rayner seemed to be flying on a steady
course, and Biggles could not help admiring the confident
manner in which the leader flew. He seemed to know exactly
where he was and what he was doing.
For some time they flew on, climbing gently, rounding mighty
fantastic pyramids of cloud that seemed to reach to high
heaven. Compared with them the four F.E.s were so small as to
be negligible -'like gnats flying round the base of snow-covered
mountains,' Biggles thought.
For twenty minutes or so Rayner headed straight into German
territory, turning neither to right nor left, a proceeding which
caused Mark to look round at his pilot with a sour grimace.
Biggles knew well enough what his gunner was thinking. The
distance they had covered, with the wind behind them, could
not be less than twenty miles; it would take them a long time to
return with the wind in their teeth. He wished there were some
gaps in the clouds so that he might see the Lines if they were in
sight. They formed a barrier between the known and the
unknown. On one side lay home, friends, and safety; on the
other, mystery, enemies, and death!
From time to time round, whirling balls of black smoke stained
the cloudscape; they increased in size, becoming less dense as
they did so, and then drifted into long plumes before they were
finally dispersed by the wind. Archie -otherwise anti-aircraft gunfire!
Biggles eyed it moodily, for although he no longer feared it, he
never failed to regard it with suspicion. After all, one never
knew.
Mark stood up, and, with a reassuring smile at Biggles, fired a
short burst downwards from his gun, to warm it up and make
sure it was in working order. From time to time the other
observers did the same.
Biggles was glad when at last Rayner changed his direction and
began to fly north-west on a course nearly parallel with the
Lines, a course that Biggles estimated would bring them back to
the Lines some thirty miles above where they had crossed.
The clouds seemed to increase in size in their, new direction,
until they assumed colossal proportions. The patrol was now
flying at nine thousand feet, but the summits of the clouds
seemed to tower as far above them as the bases were below.
Biggles had no idea that clouds could be so enormous.
They had been in the air for more than an hour, and so far they
had not seen a single other machine, either friend or foe. Several
times Mark stood up-as did the other gunners-and squinted at
the blinding sun between his first finger and thumb.
'This is too tame to be true,' thought Biggles, as he wiped the
frozen breath from his windscreen with the back of his glove,
and worked his lips, which felt as if they were getting frostbitten
in the icy wind. He noticed that Rayner was leading them to the
very top of a stupendous pile of cloud that lay directly in their
path.
'He's going over it rather than round it-got an idea there's
something on the other side, I suppose,' thought Biggles,
watching both sides of the gleaming mass.
The gunners were suspicious, too, for they all stood
up as the machines approached it, guns at the 'ready.' Mark
looked round and grinned, although his face was blue with
cold.
'Yes, this is where we strike the rough stuff!' said Biggles to
himself. He did not know why he thought that. On the face of it,
there was no more reason to suppose that this particular cloud
would conceal enemy aircraft any more than the others they
had already passed. It may have been the amazing instinct
which he was beginning to develop that warned him. At any
rate, something inside him seemed to say that hostile machines
were not far away.
Rayner was immediately over the top of the cloudpile now, and
Biggles could see him, and his gunner, looking down at
something that was still invisible to the others.
'There they are!' thought Biggles. And he no longer thought of
the cold, for Rayner's machine was wobbling its wings. A red
Very light soared into the air from the gunner's cockpit- the
signal that enemy aircraft had been sighted.
Rayner was banking now, turning slowly, and the other three
machines swam into the spot where the leader had been a few
moments before.
Biggles looked over the side, and caught his breath sharply as
he found himself looking into a hole in the clouds, a vast cavity
that would have been impossible to imagine. It reminded him
vaguely of the crater of a volcano of incredible proportions.
Straight down for a sheer eight thousand feet the walls of
opaque mist dropped, turning from yellow to brown, brown to
mauve, and mauve to indigo at the basin-like depression in the
remote bottom. The precipitous sides looked so solid that it
seemed as if a man might try to climb down them, or rest on one of the shelves that
jutted out at intervals.
He was so taken up with this phenomenon that for a brief space
of time all else was forgotten. Then a tiny movement far, far
below caught his eye, and he knew he was looking at that
which the eagle-eyed flight commander had seen instantly.
A number of machines- how many, he could not tell -were
circling round and round at the very bottom of the yawning
crater, looking like microscopic fish at the bottom of a deep pool
in a river. Occasionally one or more of them would completely
disappear in the shadows, to reappear a moment later, wings
flashing faintly as the light caught them.
They were much too far away to distinguish whether they were
friends or foes, but Rayner seemed to have no doubt in the
matter. A tiny living spark of orange fire, flashing diagonally
across the void, told its own story. It was a machine going
down in flames, and that could only mean one thing- a dog-fight
was in progress in that well of mystery.
Then Rayner went down, closely followed by the others.
Biggles never forgot that dive. There was something awe-
inspiring about it. It was like sinking down into the very centre
of the earth. There was insufficient room for the four machines
to keep in a straight dive, as the cavity was not more than a few
hundred yards across, so they were compelled to take a spiral
course.
Down-down-down they went. Biggles thought they would
never come to the end. The wind howled and screamed through
struts and wires like a thousand demons in agony, but he
heeded it not. He was too engrossed in watching the tragedy
being enacted below.
Twice, as they went down in that soul-shaking dive, he saw
machines fall out of the fight, leaving streamers of black smoke
behind them, around which the others continued to turn, and
roll, and shoot. There were at least twenty of them: drab
biplanes with yellow wings, and rainbow-hued triplanes-red,
green, blue, mauve, and even a white one.
Soon the dawn patrol was amongst the whirling machines, and it
was every man for himself.
Biggles picked out A group of triplanes with blackcrossed wings
that were flying close together. They saw him coming, and
scattered like a school of minnows when a pike appears. He
rushed at one of them, a blue machine with white wing-tips, and
pursued it relentlessly. Mark's gun started chattering, and he
saw the tracer-bullets pouring straight into the centre of the
fuselage of the machine below him.
The Hun did not burst into flames as he hoped it would.
Instead, it zoomed upwards, turned slowly over on to its back,
and then, with the engine still on, spun down out of sight into
the misty floor of the basin.
Biggles jerked the machine up sharply, and swerved just in time
to avoid collision, with a whirling bonfire of struts and canvas.
His nostrils twitched as he hurtled through its smoking trail.
Mark was shooting again, this time at a white machine. But the
pilot of it was not to be so easily disposed of. He twisted and
turned like a fish with a sea-lion after it, and more than once
succeeded in getting in a burst of fire at them.
This was the hottest dog-fight in which Biggles had as yet taken
part. One thought was uppermost in his mind, and that was that
he must inevitably collide with somebody in a moment. Already
they had missed
machines - triplanes, F.E.s, and Pups, which he now perceived
the British machines to be- by inches. But the thought of
collision did not frighten him.
He felt only a strange elation, a burning desire to go on doing
this indefinitely-to down the enemy machines before he himself
was killed, as he never doubted that he would be in the end.
There was no thought in his mind of retreat or escape.
Mark's gun was rattling incessantly, and Biggles marvelled at
the calm deliberation with which he flung the empty drums
overboard after their ammunition was exhausted, and replaced
them with new ones.
Something struck the machine with a force that made it quiver.
The compass flew to pieces, and the liquid that it contained
spurted back, half blinding him. Mechanically, he wiped his face
with the back of his glove.
Where was the white Hun? He looked around, and, his blood
seemed to turn to ice at the sight that met his gaze. An F.E. -a
blazing meteor of spurting fire was roaring nose down across his
front at frightful speed!
A black figure emerged from the flames with its arm flung over
its face, and leapt outwards and downwards. The machine,
almost as if it was still under control, deliberately swerved
towards the white triplane that was whirling across its front.
The Hun pilot saw his danger, and twisted like lightning to
escape. But he was too late. The blazing F.E. caught it fair and
square across the fuselage. There was a shower of sparks and
debris, and then a blinding flash of flames as the triplane's tanks
exploded. Then the two machines disappeared from Biggles's
field of view.
For a moment he was stunned with shock, utterly unable to
think, and it was a shrill yell from Mark that brought him back to
realities. Where was he? What was he doing? Oh, yes, fighting!
Who had been in the F.E.? Marriot? Or was it McAngus? It
must have been one of them. A yellow Hun was shooting at
him.
With a mighty effort he pulled himself together, but he felt that
he could not stand the strain much longer. He was flying on his
nerves, and he knew it. His flying was getting wild and erratic.
Turning, he swerved into the side of the cloud, temporarily
blinding himself, and then burst out again, fighting frantically to
keep the machine under control. Bullets were crashing into his
engine, and he wondered why it did not burst into flames.
Where were the bullets coming from? He leaned over the-side of
the cockpit and looked behind. A yellow Hun was on his tail. He
turned with a speed that amazed himself. Unprepared for the
move, the Hun overshot the F.E. Next instant the tables were
turned, Biggles roaring down after the triplane in hot pursuit.
Rat-tat-tat-tat! stuttered Mark's gun. At such short range it was
impossible to miss. The yellow top wing, swung back and
floated away into space, and the fuselage plunged out of sight,
a streamer of flame creeping along its side.
For a moment Biggles watched it, fascinated, then he looked up
with a start. Where were the others? Where were his
companions? He was just in time to see one of them disappear
into the side of the cloud, then he was alone.
At first he could not believe it. Where were the Huns? Not one
of them was in sight. Where, a moment or two before, there had
been twenty or more machines, not
one remained except himself- yes, one; a Pup was just
disappearing through the floor of the basin.
A feeling of horrible loneliness came over him and a doubt crept
into his mind as to his ability to find his way home. He had not
the remotest idea of his position. He looked upwards, but from
his own level to the distant circle of blue at the top of the crater
there was not a single machine to be seen. He had yet to learn
of the suddenness with which machines could disappear when a
dog-fight was broken off by mutual consent.
He had hoped to see the F.E. that he had seen disappear into
the mist come out again, but it did not.
'I'll bet that Pup pilot knows where he is; I'll go after him,' he
thought desperately, and tore down in the wake of the single-
seater that had disappeared below. He looked at his altimeter,
which had somehow escaped the general ruin caused by the
bullets. One thousand feet, it read. He sank into the mist and
came out under it almost at,once. Below lay open countryfields,
hedges, and a long, deserted road. Not a soul was in sight as far
as he could see, and there was no landmark that he could
recognize.
He saw the Pup at once. It was still going down, and he raced
after it intending to get alongside in the hope of making his
predicament known to the pilot. Then, with a shock of
understanding, he saw that the Pup's propeller was not turning.
Its engine must have been put out of action in the combat, and
the pilot had no choice but to land.
As he watched the machine, he saw the leather helmeted head
turn in the cockpit as the pilot looked back over his shoulder.
Then he turned again and made a neat landing in a field.
Biggles did not hesitate. He knew they were far over
hostile country- how far he did not like to think- and the Pup
pilot must be rescued. The single-seater was blazing when he
landed beside it, and its pilot ran towards the F.E., carrying a
still smoking Very pistol in his hand.
Biggles recognized him at once.
'Mahoney!' he yelled.
The Pup pilot pulled up dead-and stared.
'Great smoking rattlesnakes!' he cried. 'If it isn't young
Bigglesworth!'
'Get in, and buck up about it!' shouted Biggles.
'Get in here with me,' called Mark. 'It'll be a bit of a squash, but it
can be done.'
Mahoney clambered aboard and squeezed himself into the front
cockpit with the gunner.
'Look out,' he yelled. 'Huns!'
Biggles did not look. He saw little tufts of grass flying up just in
front of the machine, and he heard the distant rattle of a gun. It
told him all he needed to know, and he knew he had no time
to lose.
The F.E. took a long run to get off with its unusual burden, but
it managed it. Fortunately, its nose was pointing towards the
Lines, and there was no need to turn. The machine zoomed
upwards and the mist enfolded them like a blanket.
For a few minutes Biggles fought his way through the gloom,
then he put the nose of the machine down again, for he knew he
could not hope to keep it on an even keel for very long in such
conditions. The ground loomed darkly below; he corrected the
machine, and then climbed up again.
'Do you know where we are?' he yelled.
Mahoney nodded, and made a sign that he was to keep straight
on.
Biggles breathed more comfortably, and flew along just at the
base of the clouds. Suddenly he remembered the blazing F.E.
'Who was in that F.E.?' he bellowed to Mark.
'Rayner!' was the reply.
So Rayner had gone at last-gone out in one of the wildest dog-
fights he could have desired. Sooner or later it was bound to
happen, Biggles reflected, but it was tough luck on poor
Marble, his observer.
Poor old Marble. Two hours before they had drunk their coffee
together, and now- what a beastly business war was!
It must have been Marble whom he had seen jump. And Rayner
had deliberately rammed the Hun, he was certain of it.
'Well, I only hope I shall have as much nerve when my time
comes!' he mused. 'Poor old Rayner, he wasn't such a bad sort!'
Biggles pulled himself together and tried to put the matter from
his mind, but he could not forget the picture. He knew he would
never forget it.
An archie burst blossomed out just in front of him and warned
him that they were approaching the Lines. Two minutes later
they were in the thick of it, rocking in a wide area of flame-torn
sky. The gunners, knowing to an inch the height of the clouds,
were able to make good shooting, yet they passed through
unscathed, letting out a whoop of joy as they raced into the
sheltered security of their own Lines.
Mahoney guided the F.E. to his own aerodrome, which Biggles
had seen from the air, although he had never landed on it, and
after a rather bumpy landing, it ran to a standstill in front of No.
266 Squadron sheds, where a number of officers and mechanics were
watching.
'I believe I've busted a tyre,' muttered Biggles, in disgust. But a
quick examination revealed that the damage had not been his
fault. The tyre had been pierced from side to side by a bullet.
There was a general babble of excitement, in which everybody
talked at once. Biggles was warmly congratulated on his rescue
work, which everyone present regarded as an exceptionally
good show.
'Does anyone know what happened to the other two F.E.s?'
asked Biggles.
'Yes, they've gone home,' said several voices at once. 'They
broke off the fight when we did, and we all came home together!'
'Thank goodness!' muttered Biggles. 'I thought they had all
gone west. How did the show start?'
'We saw the Huns down in that hole, and we went in after 'em; it
looked such a nice hole that we thought it ought to be ours,'
grinned Mahoney. 'There were seven of us but there were more
of them than we thought at first. We had just got down to
things when you butted in. I didn't see you until you were
amongst us. Which way did you come in?'
'Through the front door- at the top!' laughed Biggles.
'Well, it was a fine dog-fight!' sighed Mahoney. 'The sort of
scrap one remembers. Hallo, here's the C.O.!' he added. 'Here,
sir, meet Bigglesworth, who I was telling you about the other
day. He picked me up this morning in Hunland after a Boche
had shot my engine to scrap iron.' He turned to Biggles again.
'Let me introduce you to Major Mullen, our C.O.,' he said.
'Pleased to meet you, Bigglesworth,' said Major
Mullen, shaking hands. 'You seem to be the sort of fellow we
want out here. I shall have to keep an eye on you with a view to
getting you transferred to 266.'
'I wish to goodness you could fix that, sir,' replied Biggles
earnestly. 'I shall not be happy until I get in a scout squadron-
although I should be sorry to leave Mark,' he added quickly.
'Don't worry about me,' broke in Mark. 'My application's in for
training as a pilot, so I may be leaving you, anyway.'
'Well, I can't promise anything, of course, but I'll see what can
be done about it,' Major Mullen told him.
'What are you two going to do now?' asked Mahoney.
'I think we'd better be getting back,' answered Biggles.
'Won't you stay to lunch?'
'No, thanks. We'll leave the machine here, if you'll have that tyre
put right and can lend us transport to get home. We'll come
back later on to fly the machine home.'
'Good enough!' declared Mahoney. 'I'll ask the C. 0. if you can
borrow his car. I shan't forget how you picked me up. Maybe it
will be my turn to lend a hand next time!'
'Well, so long as you don't ask me to squeeze into the cockpit of
a Pup with you I don't mind!' laughed Biggles. 'See you later!'
Chapter 9
Special Mission
'Beg pardon, sir, but Major Paynter wishes to speak to you, sir.'
Biggles glanced up, folded the letter he was reading, and put it
in his pocket. 'On the 'phone, do you mean?' he asked the mess
waiter, who had delivered the message.
'No, sir, in his office. Mr Todd rang up to say would you go
along right away.'
'All right, Collins, thanks.' Biggles picked up his cap as he went
through the hall and walked quickly along the well-worn path to
the squadron office. Two people were present in addition to the
C.O. when he entered: one a red-tabbed staff-officer, and the
other, a roundfaced, cheerful-looking civilian in a black coat
and bowler hat. Biggles saluted.
Just make sure the door is closed, will you, Bigglesworth?'
began the C.O. 'Thanks. This is Major Raymond, of Wing
Headquarters.'
'How do you do, sir?' said Biggles to the staff officer,
wondering why the C.O. did not introduce the civilian, and
what he was doing there.
'I want to have a few words with you, Bigglesworth, on a very
delicate subject,' went on the C.O. rather awkwardly. 'Er-I, or I
should say the squadron, has been asked to undertake an-er-
operation of the greatest importance. It is a job that will have to
be done single-handed, and I am putting the proposition
to you first because you have shown real enthusiasm in your
work since you've been with us, and because you have
extricated yourself from one or two difficult situations entirely
by your own initiative. The job in hand demands both initiative
and resource.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Not a bit. Now, this is the proposition. The operation, briefly,
consists in taking an-er-gentleman over the Lines, landing him
at a suitable spot, and then returning home. It is probable that
you will have to go over the Lines again afterwards, either the
same night or at a subsequent date, and pick him up from the
place where you landed him.'
'That does not seem diffi-'
Major Paynter held up his hand.
'Wait!' he said. 'Let me finish. It is only fair that I should warn
you that in the event of your being forced down on the wrong
side of the Lines, or being captured in any way, you would
probably be shot. Even if you had to force-land in German
territory on the return journey, with no one in the machine but
yourself, it is more than likely that the enemy would suspect
your purpose and subject you to rigorous interrogation. And if
the enemy could wring the truth from you- that you had been
carrying a Secret Service agent-they would be justified in
marching you before a firing squad.'
'I understand. Very good, sir. I'll go.'
'Thank you, Bigglesworth! The gentleman here with Major
Raymond will be your passenger. It would be well for you to
meet him now, as you will not see him again in daylight, and
you should be able to identify each other.'
Biggles walked over to the civilian and held out his hand.
'Pleased to meet you!' he said.
The spy- for Biggles had no delusion about the real nature of the
work on hand- smiled and wrung his hand warmly. He was a
rather fat, jovial-looking little man with a huge black moustache;
in no way was he like the character Biggles would have expected
for such work.
'Well, I think that's all for the present, Raymond,' went on the
C.O. 'Let me know the details as soon as you can. I'll have
another word with you, Bigglesworth, before you go.'
Biggles saluted as the staff officer departed with his civilian
companion, and then turned his attention again to Major
Paynter, who was staring thoughtfully out of the window.
'I want you to see this thing in its true perspective,' resumed the
C.O. 'We are apt to think spying is rather dirty work. It may be,
from the strictly military point of view, but one should not forget
that it needs as much nerve- if not more- than anything a soldier
is called upon to face. A soldier may be killed, wounded, or made
prisoner. But a spy's career can only have one ending if he's
caught-the firing squad! He does not die a man's death in the
heat of battle; he is shot like a dog against a brick wall. That's
the result of failure. If he succeeds, he gets no medals, honour
or glory. Silence surrounds him always.
'And most of these men work for nothing. Take that man you've
just seen, for instance. He is, of course, a Frenchman. In private
life he's a schoolmaster at Aille, which is now in territory
occupied by the enemy. He worked his way across the frontier
into Holland, and then to France, via England, to offer his
services to his country. He asks no reward. There's courage and
self sacrifice, if you like. Remember that when he's in your
machine. His knowledge of the country around Aille makes his
services particularly valuable. If he gets back safely this time- he
has already made at least one trip- he will go again. And so it will
go on, until one day he will not come back.
'As far as you're concerned as his pilot, you need have no
scruples. Most of the leading French pilots have taken their
turns for special missions, as these affairs are called. For
obvious reasons, only the best pilots, those of proven courage,
are chosen for the work. Well, I think that's all. I'll let you know
the details, the date and time, later on. Don't mention this matter
to anybody, except, of course, your flight-commander, who will
have to know.'
Biggles bumped into Mapleton, his flight-commander, just
outside the office.
'What's on?' asked Mabs quietly. 'Special mission?'
Biggles nodded.
'I thought so. For the love of Mike be careful! You've only got to
make one bloomer at that game, and all the king's horses and all
the king's men couldn't save you. I did one once, and that was
enough for me. No more, thank you!'
'Why, did things go wrong?' inquired Biggles, as they walked
towards the mess.
'Wrong! It was worse than that. In the first place, the cove
refused to get out of the machine when we got there; his nerves
petered out. He couldn't speak English, and I can't speak
French, so I couldn't tell him what I thought of him. When I tried
to throw him out he kicked up such a row that it brought all the
Huns for miles to the spot. I had to get off in a hurry, I can tell
you, bringing the blighter back with me. But some of these
fellows have been over no end of times, and
they have brought back, or sent back, information of the
greatest importance. They have to carry a basket of pigeons
with them, and they release one every time they get information
worth while. How would you like to walk about amongst the
Boche with a pigeon up your coat? It's only got to give one coo
and you're sunk. The French do a lot of this business; most of
the leading French pilots have had a go at it. Vedrines, the pre-
war pilot, did several shows. When the War broke out the
French expected great things of him, and when he just faded
into insignificance they began saying nasty things about him.
But he was doing special missions, and those are things people
don't talk about.'
'Well, if my bowler-hatted bird starts any trouble I'll give him a
thick ear!' observed Biggles.
'Oh, he'll be all right, I should think!' replied Mabs. 'The
landing is the tricky part. The Huns know all about this spy-
dropping game, and they do their best to catch people in the act
by laying traps in likely landing-fields, such as by digging
trenches across the field and then covering them up with grass
so that you can't see them. When you land -zonk! Another
scheme is to stretch wire across the field, which has a similar
result.'
'Sounds cheerful! And there are no means of knowing whether
a trap has been laid in the field that you have to land on?'
'Not until you land,' grinned Mabs.
'That's a fat lot of good!' growled Biggles. 'Well, we shall see.
Many thanks for the tips!'
'That's all right. My only advice is, don't let them catch you
alive, laddie. Remember, they shoot you as well as the fellow
you are carrying if you're caught, They treat you both alike!'
They'll have to shoot me to catch me!' replied Biggles grimly.
The hands of the mess clock pointed to the hour of nine when,
a few evenings later, Biggles finished his after-dinner coffee,
and, collecting his flying kit from its peg in the hall, strolled
towards the door.
Mark Way, who had followed him out of the room, noted these
proceedings with surprise. 'What's the idea?' he asked, reaching
for his own flying kit.
'I've a little job to do- on my own. I can't talk about it. Sorry, old
lad!' replied Biggles, and departed. He found Major Raymond
and his civilian acquaintance waiting on the tarmac. In
accordance with his instructions to the flight-sergeant, his
F.E.2b had been wheeled out and the engine was ticking over
quietly.
'Remember, he's doing the job for us, not for the French,' Major
Raymond told him quietly. 'He's going to dynamite a bridge
over the Aisne near the point that I told you about yesterday,'
he went on, referring to a conversation on the previous day at
which the details had been arranged. 'He's asked me to tell you
not to worry about his return. He's quite willing for you to leave
him to work his own way back across the frontier, although
naturally he'd be glad if you would pick him up again later on . '
'How long will he be doing this job, sir' asked Biggles.
'It's impossible to say. So much depends on the conditions
when he gets there- whether or not there are guards at the
bridge, and so on. If it is all clear, he might do the job in half an
hour, or an hour. On the other hand, he may be two or three
days, waiting for his opportunity. Why do you ask?'
'I was thinking that if he wasn't going to be very long, I might
wait for him?'
The major shook his head. 'It isn't usually done that way,' he
said. 'It's too risky!'
'The risk doesn't seem to be any greater than making another
landing.'
'Wait a minute and I'll ask him,' said the major.
He had a quick low conversation with the secret agent, and
then returned to Biggles.
'He says the noise of your engine would attract attention if you
waited, and it would not be advisable for you to switch off,' he
reported. 'All the same, he asked me to tell you that he'd be very
grateful if you would pick him up a few hours afterwards -it
would save him three weeks' or a month's anxious work getting
through Holland. He suggests that you allow him as much as
possible, in case he's delayed. If you'll return at the first glimmer
of dawn he'll try to be back by then. If he's not there, go home
and forget about him. He suggests dawn because it may save
you actually landing. If you can't see him in the field, or on the
edge of the field, don't land. If he is there, he'll show himself.
That seems to be a very, sensible arrangement, and a fair one
for both parties.'
'More than fair,' agreed Biggles. 'If he's got enough nerve to
dodge about amongst the Huns with a stick of dynamite in one
pocket and a pigeon in the other, I ought to have enough nerve
to fetch him back!'
'Quite! Still, he's willing to leave it to you.'
Biggles strolled across and shook hands with the man, who did
not seem in the least concerned about the frightful task he was
about to undertake. He was munching a biscuit contentedly.
'It is an honour to know you,' Biggles said. And he meant it.
'It is for La France,' answered the man simply.
'Well, I'm ready when you are!'
'Bon. Let us go,' was the reply. And they climbed into their
seats.
Biggles noted with amazement that his passenger did not even
wear flying kit. He wore the same dark suit as before, and the
bowler hat, which he jammed hard on. He carried two bundles,
and Biggles did not question what they contained; he thought
he knew. Pigeons and dynamite were a curious mixture, he
thought, as he settled himself into his seat.
He could hardly repress a smile as his eye fell on
the unusual silhouette in the front cockpit. There was
something queer about going to war in a bowler hat.
Then something suspiciously like a lump came into
his throat at the thought of the simple Frenchman,
unsoldierly though he was in appearance, risking his
all to perform an act of service to his country. He made
up his mind that if human hands could accomplish it,
he would bring his man safely back.
'I am ready, my little cabbage. Pour the sauce!' cried the man.
And Biggles laughed aloud at the command to open the
throttle. There was something very likeable about this fellow
who could start on a mission of such desperate peril so
casually.
'Won't you be frozen?' asked Biggles.
'It is not of the importance,' replied the Frenchman. 'We shall not be of the long time.'
'As You like,' shouted Biggles, and waved the wingtip
mechanics away. The engine roared as he opened
the throttle, and a moment later he was in the air heading
towards the Lines. In spite of the cold the little man still stood in
his seat, with his coat-collar turned up, gazing below at the dark
shadow of his beloved France.
Presently the archie began to tear the air about them.
It was particularly vicious, and Biggles crouched a
little lower in his seat. The spy leaned back towards
him, and cupped his hands around his mouth. 'How
badly they shoot, these Boche!' he called cheerfully.
Biggles regarded him stonily. The fellow obviously had no
imagination, for the bombardment was bad enough to make a
veteran quail.
'He can't understand, that's all about it! Great
jumping cats, I'd hate to be with him in what he would
call good shooting!' he thought, and then turned his
attention to the task of finding his way to the landing-
ground they had decided upon. For his greatest fear
was that he would be unable to locate it in the darkness,
although he had marked it down as closely as he could
by means of surrounding landmarks.
He picked out a main road, lying like a grey ribbon across the
landscape, followed it until it forked, took the left fork, and then
followed that until it disappeared into a wood. On the far side of
the wood he made out the unmistakable straight track of a
railway line, running at right angles to it. He followed this in turn,
until the lights of a small town appeared ahead. Two roads
converged upon it, and somewhere between the two roads and
the railway line. lay the field in which he had been instructed to
land.
He intended to follow his instructions to the letter, knowing that
the authorities must have a good reason for their choice.
Possibly they knew from secret agents
who were working, or had worked, in the vicinity, that the field
had not been wired, or that it had not even fallen under the
suspicion of the enemy. He dismissed the matter from his mind
and concentrated upon the task of finding the field and landing
the machine on it.
He cut the engine and commenced a long glide down. He glided
as slowly as he could without losing flying speed so that
possible watchers on the ground would not hear the wind
vibrating in his wires, which they might if he came down too
quickly. The spy was leaning over the side of the cockpit,
watching the proceedings with interest. Then, as Biggles
suddenly spotted the field and circled carefully towards it, the
Frenchman picked up his parcels and placed them on the seat
with no more concern than a passenger in an omnibus or
railway train prepares to alight.
Biggles could see the field clearly now- a long, though not very
wide strip of turf. He side-slipped gently to bring the F.E. dead
in line with the centre of the field, glided like a wraith over the
tops of the trees that bounded the northern end, and then
flattened out.
The machine sank slowly, the wheels trundled over the rough
turf- with rather a lot of noise, Biggles thought- the tail-skid
dragged, and the machine ran to a stop after one of the best
landings he had ever made in his life. He sank back limply,
realizing that the tension of the last few minutes had been
intense.
'Thank you, my little cabbage!' whispered' the Frenchman, and
glided away into the darkness.
For a moment or two Biggles could hardly believe that he had
gone, so quietly and swiftly had he disappeared. For perhaps a
minute he sat listening, but he could hear nothing, save the
muffled swish of his idling propeller. He stood up and stared
into the darkness on
all sides, but there was no sign of life; not a light showed
anywhere. As far as his late passenger was concerned, the
ground might have opened and swallowed him up.
'Well, I might as well be going!' he decided.
There was no need for him to turn in order to take off. He had
plenty of 'run' in front of him, and the engine roared as he
opened the throttle and. swept up into the night. He almost
laughed with relief as the earth dropped away below him.
It had been absurdly easy, and the reaction left him with a
curious feeling of elation-a joyful sensation that the enemy had
been outwitted. 'These things aren't so black as they're painted!'
was his unspoken thought as he headed back towards the
Lines. He crossed them in the usual flurry of archie, and ten
minutes later taxied up to his flight hangar and switched off. He
glanced at his watch. Exactly fifty minutes had elapsed since he
and his companion had taken off from the very spot on, which
the machine now stood, and it seemed incredible that in that
interval of time he had actually landed in German territory and
unloaded a man who, for all he knew, might now be dead or in a
prison cell awaiting execution. He hoped fervently that the
second half of his task might prove as simple. He climbed
stiffly to the ground and met Mabs and Mark, who had
evidently heard him land.
'How did you get on?' asked Mabs quickly.
'Fine! If I'd known you were waiting I'd have brought you a
bunch of German primroses; there were some growing in the
field.'
'You'd better turn in and get some sleep,' Mabs advised him.
'Yes, I might as well- for a bit.'
'For a bit? What do you mean?'
'I'm going over again presently to fetch my bowler-hatted pal
back!'
Biggles condemned the spy, the authorities in general, and the
Germans in particular, to purgatory when, at the depressing
hour of five o'clock the following morning, his batman aroused
him from a deep, refreshing sleep.
It was bitterly cold, and the stars were still twinkling brightly in
a wintry sky; a thick layer of white frost covered everything and
wove curious patterns on the window-panes. It was one of
those early spring frosts that remind us that the winter is not
yet finished.
'What an hour to be hauled out of bed!' he grumbled, half-
regretting his rash promise to fetch his man. But a cup of hot
coffee and some toast put a fresh complexion on things, and he
hummed cheerfully as he strode briskly over the crisp turf
towards the sheds. He had told the flight-sergeant to detail two
mechanics to 'stand by,' and he found them shivering in their
greatcoats, impatiently awaiting his arrival. 'All right, get her
out,' he said sharply, and between them they dragged the F.E.
out on to the tarmac. 'Start her up,' he went on, tying a thick
woollen muffler round his neck and then pulling on his flying
kit.
Five minutes later he was in the air again, heading towards the
scene of action.
The sky began to grow pale in the east, and, following the same
landmarks that he had used before, he had no difficulty in
finding his way. The first flush of dawn was stealing across the
sky as he approached the field, but the earth was still bathed in
deep blue and purple shadows.
He throttled back and began gliding down, eyes probing the
shadows, seeking for the field and a little man. He picked out
the field, but the spy was nowhere in sight, and Biggles' heart
sank with apprehension, for he had developed a strong liking
for him. He continued to circle for a few minutes, losing height
slowly, eyes running over the surrounding country. Suddenly
they stopped, and remained fixed on the one spot where a
movement had attracted his attention. Something had flashed
dully, but for a second he could not make out what it was.
A fresh turn brought him nearer, and then he saw distinctly-
horses - mounted troops - Uhlans. A troop of them was
standing quietly under a clump of leafless trees near the main
road, not more than a couple of hundred yards away from the
field. He saw others, and small groups of infantry, at various
points around the field, concealing themselves as well as the
sparse cover would permit.
His lips turned dry. No wonder the little man was not there.
For some reason or other, possibly because the mission had
been successful, the whole countryside was being watched.
Yet, he reasoned, the very presence of the troops suggested
that the little man had not been caught. If he had been taken
there would be no need for the troops- unless they were waiting
for the plane. Well, the little man was not there, so there was no
point in landing. He might as well go home. He had no intention
of stepping into the trap.
He was within two hundred feet of the ground, and actually had
his hand on the throttle to open his engine again, when a figure
burst from the edge of the field
and waved its arms. Biggles drew in his breath with a sharp
hiss, for the Uhlans had started to move forward. He flung the
control-stick over to the left, and, holding up the plane's nose
with right rudder, dropped like a stone in a vertical sideslip
towards the field.
Never in his life had his nerves been screwed up to such a
pitch. His heart hammered violently against his ribs but his
brain was clear, and he remained cool and collected. He knew
that only perfect judgment and timing could save the situation.
The Uhlans were coming at a canter; already they were in the
next field.
With his eyes on the man he skimmed over the tops of the trees,
put the machine on an even keel, and began to flatten out. Then a
remarkable thing happened- an occurrence so unexpected and
so inexplicable that for a moment he was within an ace of taking
off again. A second figure had sprung out of the ditch behind
the man in the field and started to run towards him. The newcomer
wore a black coat and bowler hat. He did not run towards
the machine, but raced towards the man who had been waving,
and who was now making for the F.E.
Up to this moment it had not occurred to Biggles for one instant
that the man who had been waving was not his little man, and
when the second figure appeared his calculations were thrown
into confusion. The man in the bowler hat was the spy, there
was no doubt of that, for he was now close enough for his face
and figure to be recognized. Who, then, was the other?
The Frenchman seemed to know, for as he closed on him he
flung up his right hand. There was a spurt of flame. The other
flung up his arms and pitched forward on to his face.
Biggles began to see daylight. The thing was an
artfully prepared trap. The first man who had showed himself
was a decoy, an imposter to lure him to his death. The real spy
had been lying in the hedge bottom, not daring to show himself
with so many troops about, hoping that he, Biggles, would not
land, which would have been in accordance with their plans.
From his position the spy had seen the decoy break cover, and
knew his purpose. So he had exposed himself to warn his flying
partner, even at the expense of his own life.
The knowledge made Biggles still more determined to save him,
although he could see it was going to be a matter of touch-and-
go. The decoy lay where he had fallen, and the little Frenchman,
still wearing his bowler, was sprinting as fast as his legs could
carry him towards the now taxi-ing machine.
But the Ulilans were already putting their horses at the hedge,
not a hundred yards away. Shots rang out, the sharp whip-like
cracks of cavalry carbines splitting the still morning air. Bullets
hummed like angry wasps, one tearing through the machine
with a biting jar that made Biggles wince.
'Come on!' he roared, unable to restrain himself, and he opened
the throttle slightly.
The little man's face was red with exertion, and he was puffing
hard. He took a flying leap at the nose of the F.E. and dragged
himself up on to the edge of the cockpit. 'Voila! We have made
it, my little mushroom!' he gasped. And then, as Biggles jammed
the throttle wide open, he pitched head first inside.
The Uhlans were galloping towards them, crouching low on the
backs of their mounts, and spurring them to greater efforts.
There was no time to turn. Biggles did the only thing possible.
He shoved the joy-stick
forward and charged. He caught a glimpse of swerving horses
and flashing carbines straight in front of him; then he pulled the
stick back into his stomach, flinching from what seemed must
end in collision.
He relaxed limply as the F.E. zoomed upwards, and shook his
head as if unable to believe that they were actually in the air.
For the last two or three minutes he had not been conscious of
actual thought. He had acted purely on instinct, throwing the
whole strain on his nerves.
A round, good-humoured face appeared above the edge of the
forward cockpit. The spy caught his eye and grinned. 'Bon! he
shouted. 'That's the stuff, my little cabbage!'
Major Raymond was watching on the tarmac when they landed.
His face beamed with delight when he saw they were both in
the machine.
'How did it go?' he asked the little Frenchman quickly.
'Pouf! Like that!' said the spy. 'The bridge is no more, and,
thanks to my little specimen here, I can now have my coffee at
home instead of with the pigsheads over the way.'
'Have a close call, Bigglesworth?' asked the major, becoming
serious.
'We did, sir!' admitted Biggles. 'I think I shall fly in a bowler hat
in future-they seem to be lucky!'
'Ah! But those Boches are cunning ones!' muttered the
Frenchman. 'They hunt for me, but I am in the ditch like a rabbit.
They know the aeroplane will come, so they find another man
to make my little artichoke land. He lands -so. I think furiously.
La, la, it is simple. I shoot, and then I run. My jingoes, how I
run! Pish. We win, and here we are. I think we will go again some day,
eh?' He beamed at Biggles.
'Perhaps!' agreed Biggles, but without enthusiasm. 'I've had all
I want for a little while, though!'
'Pish!' laughed the spy. 'It was nothing! just a little excitement
to-how you say?-warm the blood.'
'Warm the blood!' exclaimed Biggles. 'When I want to do that
I'll do it in front of the mess-room fire, thanks! Your sort of
warm gets me overheated!'
Chapter 10
Eyes of the Guns
Biggles' face wore a curious expression as he gazed down upon
the blue-green panorama four thousand feet below. The day
was fine and clear, and recent rain had washed the earth until
roads and fields lay sharply defined to the far horizon. Ponds
and lakes gleamed like mirrors in the sun, and ruined villages
lay here and there like the bones of long-forgotten monsters. At
intervals along the roads were long, black caterpillars that he
knew were bodies of marching men, sometimes with wagons
and artillery. There was nothing unusual about the scene,
certainly nothing to cause the look of distaste on the pilot's
face. It was an everyday scene on the Western Front.
The truth of the matter was he was setting out on a task that he
expected would be wearisome to the point of utter boredom. He
had never been detailed for this particular job before, but he
had heard a good deal about it, and nothing that was pleasant.
The work in question was that known throughout the Royal
Flying Corps by those two mystic syllables 'art obs'-in other
words, artillery observation.
There were certain squadrons that did nothing else but this
work- ranging the guns of our artillery on those of the enemy;
sometimes, however, the target was an ammunition dump, a
bridge, or a similar strategical point that the higher command
decided must be destroyed.
It was by no means as simple as it might appear, and the crew of
the machine told off for the task were expected to remain at their
post until each gun of the battery for which it was working had
scored a hit, after which, without altering the range, they might
continue to fire shot after shot at the target until it was wiped
out of existence.
If the pilot was lucky, or clever, and the battery for which he
was spotting good at its work, the job might be finished in an
hour-or it might take three hours; and during the whole of that
period the artillery aeroplane would have to circle continuously
over the same spot, itself a target for every archie battery within
range, and the prey of every prowling enemy scout.
Whether the task was more monotonous for the pilot, who had
to watch his own battery for the flash of the gun and then the
target for the bursting shell, signalling its position by the Morse
code, or for the observer, whose duty it was not to watch the
ground (as might reasonably be supposed) but the sky around
for danger while the pilot was engrossed in his work, is a matter
of opinion.
In any case, Biggles neither knew nor cared, but of one thing he
was certain; circling in the same spot for hours was neither
amusing nor interesting. Hence the unusual expression on his
face as he made his way eastwards towards the Lines, to find
the British battery for which he was detailed, and the enemy
battery which the British guns proposed to wipe out. This being
his first attempt at art obs, he was by no means sure that he
would be able to find either of them, and this may have been
another reason why he was not flying with his usual
enthusiasm.
Now, in order that the operation known as art obs
should be understood, a few words of explanation are
necessary, although the procedure is quite simple once the idea
has been grasped. Biggles, like all other R.F.C. officers, had
been given a certain amount of instruction at his training
school, but as he had hoped to be sent to a scout squadron,
which never did this class of work, he had not concentrated on
the instruction as much as he might have done.
Briefly, this was the programme, for which, as a general rule,
wireless was used, although occasionally a system of Very
lights was employed. Wireless, at the time of which we are
speaking, was of a primitive nature. The pilot, by means of an
aerial which he lowered below the machine, could only send
messages; he could not receive them. The gunners, in order to
convey a message to the pilot, had to lay out strips of white
material in the form of letters. The target was considered to be
the centre of an imaginary clock, twelve o'clock being due north.
Six o'clock was therefore due south, and the other cardinal
points in their relative positions. Imaginary rings drawn round
the target were lettered A, B, C, D, E, and F. These were 50, 100,
200, 300, 400, and 500 yards away respectively.
When the gunners started work, if the first shell dropped, say,
one hundred yards away and due north of the target, all the
pilot had to do was to signal B 12. 'B' meant that the shell burst
one hundred yards away, and the '12' meant at twelve o'clock on
the imaginary clock face. Thus the gunners were able to mark on
their map exactly were the shell had fallen, and were therefore
able to adjust their gun for the next shot. As another example, a
shell bursting three hundred yards to the right of the target
would be signalled D 3, or three hundred yards away at three
o'clock. In this way
the pilot was saved the trouble of tapping out long messages.
Briefly, while the 'shoot', as it was called, was in progress, the
pilot continued to correct the aim of the gunners until they
scored a hit. The first gun was now ranged on the target. The
second gun was ranged in the same way, and so it went on
until every gun in the battery was ranged on the target. Then
they fired a salvo (all guns together) which the pilot would
signal 'mostly O.K.', and thereafter the battery would pump out
shells as fast as it could until the enemy guns were put out of
action.
This is what Biggles had to do.
Approaching the Line, he quickly picked out the battery of
guns for which he was to act as the 'eyes', and after a rather
longer search he found the enemy battery, neatly camouflaged,
and quite oblivious to the treat in store for it. He reached for his
buzzer, which was a small key on the inside of his cockpit, and
sent out a series of letter B's in the Morse code, meaning 'Are
you receiving my signals?'
This was at once acknowledged by the battery, which put out
three strips of white cloth in the form of a letter K- the
recognition signal.
Biggles was rather amused, not to say surprised, at this prompt
response. It struck him as strange that by pressing a lever in the
cockpit he could make people on the ground do things. In fact,
it was rather fun. He reached for his buzzer again, and sent K Q,
K Q, K Q, meaning 'Are you ready to fire?' (All signals were
repeated three times) Biggles, of course, could not hear his own
signals; they were sent out by wireless, which was picked up on
a small receiving set at the battery's listening-post.
The white strips of cloth on the ground at once took the form
of a letter L, meaning 'ready.'
G-G-G, buzzed Biggles. G was the signal to fire. Instantly a gun
flashed, and Biggles, who was becoming engrossed in his task,
turned his machine, eyes seeking the distant objective to watch
the shell burst.
'Hi!'
The shrill shout from Mark Way, his observer, made him jump.
Mark was pointing. Falling like a meteor from the sky was an
Albatros, silver with scarlet wingtips. The sun flashed on the
gleaming wings, turning them into streaks of fire, on the ends of
which were two large black crosses.
Biggles frowned and waved his hand impatiently. 'Make him
keep out of the way!' he yelled, and turned back to watch the
shell burst. But he was too late. A faint cloud of white smoke
was drifting across the landscape near the target, but it was
already dispersing, so it was impossible to say just where the
shell had burst.
'Dash it!' muttered Biggles, turning and feeling for his buzzer.
'Now I've got to do it again.' G-G-G, he signalled.
There was a moment's pause before the gun flashed again, the
gunners possibly wondering why he had not registered their
first shot. Biggles turned again towards the target, but before
the shell exploded the chatter of a machine-gun made him look
up quickly. The Albatros had fired a burst at them, swung up in
a climbing turn, and was now coming back at them.
'You cock-eyed son of a coot!' Biggles roared at Mark, as he
turned to meet the attack. At this rate the job would never be
done. 'And I'll give you something to fling yourself about for,
you interfering hound!' he growled at the approaching Albatros.
Curiously, it did not
occur to him that their lives were in any particular danger, a fact
which reveals the confidence that was coming to him as a result
of experience. He was not in the least afraid of a single German
aeroplane. However, he had still much to learn.
His windscreen flew to pieces, and something whanged against
his engine. Again the Hun pulled up in a wonderful zoom,
twisting cunningly out of the hail of lead that Mark's gun spat
at him. He levelled out, turned, and came down at them again.
For the first time it dawned on Biggles that the man in the
machine was no ordinary pilot; he was an artist, a man who
knew just what he was doing. Further, he had obviously
singled him out for destruction. Well, the battery would have to
wait, that was all.
Biggles brought his machine round to face the new attack,
pulling his nose up to give Mark the chance of a shot. But
before he could fire, the Hun had swerved in an amazing
fashion,to some point behind them, and a steady stream of
bullets began to rip through the wings of the British machine.
Again Biggles turned swiftly- but the Hun was not there.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat- a stream of lead poured up from below, one of
the bullets jarring against the root of the joystick with a jerk
that flung it out of his hand.
'You artful swipe!' rasped Biggles, flinging the F.E. round in
such a steep turn that Mark nearly went overboard.
'Sorry!' Biggles' lips formed the words, but he was pointing at
the Hun, who had climbed up out of range, but was now
coming down again like a thunderbolt, guns spurting long
streams of flame. Mark was shooting, too, their bullets
seeming to meet between the two
machines. The Albatros came so close that Biggles could
distinctly see the tappets of the other's engine working, and the
pilot's face peering at them over the side of his cockpit. Then he
swerved, and Biggles breathed a sigh of relief.
But he was congratulating himself too soon. The Albatros
twisted like a hawk, dived, turned as he dived, and then came
up at them like a rocket. To Biggles this manoeuvre was so
unexpected, so seemingly impossible, that he could hardly
believe it, and he experienced a real spasm of fright. He no
longer thought of the battery below; he knew he was fighting
the battle of his life, his first real duel against a man who knew
his job thoroughly.
During the next five minutes he learnt many things, things that
were to stand him in good stead later on, and the fact that he
escaped was due, not to his ability, but to a circumstance for
which he was duly grateful. Twice he had made a break, in the
hope of reaching the Lines. For during the combat, as was so
often the case, the wind had blown them steadily over enemy
country, but each time the enemy was there first, cutting off his
escape. Mark had not been idle, but the wily German seldom
gave him a fair chance for even a fleeting shot, much less a
'sitter.'
The Hun seemed to attack from all points of the compass at
once. Biggles turned to face his aggressor in a new quarter-the
fellow was always in the most unexpected quarter-and dived
furiously at him; too furiously. He overshot, and, before he
could turn, the Hun was behind him, pouring hot lead into his
engine.
He knew that he was lost. Something grazed his arm, and with
horror he saw blood running down Mark's face. He crouched
low as he tried to turn out of the hail of lead. The bullets stopped
abruptly as he came round, glaring wildly. The Hun had gone.
Presently Biggles made him out, dropping like a stone towards
the safety of his own territory. He could hardly believe his eyes.
He had been cold meat for the enemy pilot, and he knew it. Why,
then- but Mark was pointing upwards, grinning.
Biggles' eyes followed the outstretched finger, and he saw a
formation of nine Sopwith Pups sweeping across the sky five
thousand feet above them. He grinned back, trembling slightly from reaction.
'By gosh, that was a close one! I'll remember that piece of silver-
and-red furniture, and keep out of his way!' he vowed, inwardly
marvelling, and wondering how the Boche pilot had been able to
concentrate his attack on him in the way that he had, and yet
watch the surrounding sky for possible danger. He knew that if
there had been a thousand machines in the sky he would not
have seen them, yet the Hun had not failed to see the
approaching Pups when they were miles away. 'Pretty good!' he
muttered admiringly. 'I'll remember that!'
And he did. It was his first real lesson in the art of
air combat. His pride suffered when he thought of the
way the Hun had 'made rings round him,' and he was
not quite as confident of himself as he had been, yet
he knew that the experience was worth all the anxiety
it had caused him.
But what about the enemy battery? He looked down, and saw
that he had drifted miles away from it.
He snorted his disgust at the archie that opened up on him the
instant the Hun had departed, and made his way back to his
original rendezvous. The calico 'L' was still lying on the ground
near the battery. Although he did not know it, the gunners had
watched the combat with the greatest interest, and were
agreeably surprised to see him returning so soon after the attack.
G-G-G, he buzzed. The gun flashed, and the F.E. rocked suddenly,
almost as if it had been shaken by an invisible hand.
Biggles started, and looked at his altimeter. In the fight he had, as
usual, lost height, and he was now below three thousand feet. He
knew that the great howitzer shell had passed close to him, so he
started climbing as quickly as possible to get above its
culminating point. The archie smoke was so thick that he had
great difficulty in seeing the shell burst. It was a good five
hundred yards short. F6-F6-F6 he signalled; and then, after a
brief interval: G-G-G. He watched with interest for the next shell to
burst, but it was farther from the mark than the first one had been.
'If they don't improve faster than that we shall still be here when
the bugles blow "Cease fire!" ' he muttered in disgust.
The next shot was better, but it was a good four hundred yards
beyond the mark and slightly to the right. D 1 - D 1 - D 1 he
tapped out as he turned in a wide circle and then back again
towards the target on a course which, had he been a sky-writer,
would have traced a large figure eight- the usual method of the
artillery spotting 'plane, which allowed the pilot to see both his
own battery and the target in turn. It also
kept the archie gunners guessing which way he was going
next.
An hour later Biggles was still at it, and the first gun had got no
closer than two hundred yards to its mark. The fascination of
the pastime was beginning to wear off; indeed it was already
bordering on the monotonous. 'This is a nice game played
slow,' he shouted. 'Why don't those fellows learn to shoot?'
He was falling into a sort of reverie, sending his signals
automatically, when he was again brought back to realities by a
yell from Mark. He looked round sharply, and fixed his eyes on
a small, straight-winged machine that was climbing up towards
them from the east. The German anti-aircraft gunners must have
seen it, too, for the archie died away abruptly as they ceased
fire rather than take the risk of hitting their own man. There was
no mistaking the machine. It was the red-and-silver Albatros.
Biggles was not to be caught napping twice. He turned his nose
towards home and dived, only pulling out when he felt he was a
safe distance over the Lines. He turned in time to see his late
adversary gliding away into a haze that was forming over the
other side of the Lines.
Once more he returned to his post, and signalled to the gunners
to fire, but even as the gun flashed, he heard the rat-tat-tat-tat
of a machine-gun, and the disconcerting flac-flac-flac of bullets
ripping through his wings.
'You cunning hound!' he grated, seething with rage as he
caught a glimpse of the red-and-silver wings of his old
adversary as it darted in from the edge of the haze in which it
had taken cover. It was another tip in the art of stalking that he
did not forget. At the moment he was concerned only with
the destruction of his persistent
tormentor, and he attacked with a fury that he had never felt
before. He wanted to see the Albatros crash- he wanted to see
that more than he had ever wanted to see anything in his life.
Completely mastered by his anger, he made no attempt to
escape, but positively flung the F.E. at the black-crossed
machine. This was evidently something the Hun did not expect,
and he was nearly caught napping.
Mark got in a good burst before the Hun swerved out of his line
of fire. Biggles yanked the F.E. round in a turn that might have
torn its wings off, and plunged down on the tail of the Albatros.
He saw the pilot look back over his shoulder, and felt a curious
intuition as to which way he would turn. He saw the Hun's
rudder start to move, which confirmed it, and, without waiting
for the Albatros actually to answer to its controls, he whipped
the F.E. round in a vertical bank.
The Hun had turned the same way, as he knew he must, and he
was still on its tail, less than fifty yards away. It was a brilliant
move, although at the time he did not know it; it showed
anticipation in the moves of the game that marked the expert in
air combat. He thrust the stick forward with both hands until he
could see the dark gases flowing out of his enemy's
exhaust pipe; saw the pilot's blond moustache, saw the goggled
eyes staring at him, and saw Mark's bullets sewing a leaden
seam across his fuselage.
The Hun turned over on to its back and then spun, Biggles
watching it with savage satisfaction that turned to chagrin
when, a thousand feet from the ground, the red-and-silver
machine levelled out and sped towards home. The pilot had
deliberately thrown his machine
out of control in order to mislead his enemy-another trick
Biggles never forgot.
'We've given the blighter something to think about, at any rate!'
he thought moodily, as he turned to the battery.
The gunners were waiting for him, but, to his annoyance and
disgust, the first shot went wide; it was, in fact, farther away
from the target than the first one had been.
'This is a game for mugs!' he snarled. 'As far as I can see, there's
nothing to prevent this going on for ever. Don't those fellows
ever hit what they shoot at?'
He was getting tired, for they had now been in the air for more
than three hours, and, as far as he could see, they were no
nearer the end than when they started. The archie was getting
troublesome again, and he was almost in despair when an idea
struck him.
'H.Q. want that Hun battery blown up, do they?' he thought. 'All
right, they shall have it blown up- but I know a quicker way of
doing it than this.' He turned suddenly and raced back towards
his aerodrome, sending the C H I signal as he went. C H I in the
code meant 'I am going home.' He landed and taxied up to the
hangars.
'Fill her up with petrol and hang two 112-pounder bombs on the
racks-and make it snappy!' he told the flight-sergeant. Then he
hurried down to the mess and called up on the telephone the
battery for which he had been acting.
'Look here,' he began hotly, 'I'm getting tired, trying to put you
ham-fisted -What's that? Colonel? Sorry, sir!' He collected
himself quickly, realizing that he had made a bad break. The
brigade colonel was on the other end of the wire. 'Well, the fact
is, sir,' he went on, 'I've just thought of an idea that may speed things up a bit.
The target is a bit too low for you to see, I think, and- well, if I
laid an egg on that spot it would show your gun-layers just
where the target is. What's that, sir? Unusual? Yes, I know it is,
but if it comes off it will save a lot of time and ammunition. If it
fails I'll go on with the shoot again in the ordinary way. Yes, sir-
very good, sir- I'll be over in about a quarter of an hour.'
He put the receiver down, and, ignoring Toddy's cry of protest,
hurried back to the sheds. Mark looked at him in astonishment
when he climbed back into his seat. 'Haven't you had enough of
it, or have you got a rush of blood to the brain?' he asked
coldly.
'Brain, my foot!' snapped Biggles. 'I'm going to give those Huns
a rush of something. I've done figures of eight until I'm dizzy.
Round and round the blinking mulberry-bush, with every archie
battery for miles practising on me. I'm going to liven things up a
bit. You coming, or are you going to stay at home? Things are
likely to get warmish.'
'Of course I'm coming!'
'Well, come on, let's get on with it.'
He took off, and climbed back to the old position between the
batteries, but he sent no signal. He did not even let his aerial
out. He began to circle as if he was going to continue the
'shoot,' but then, turning suddenly, he jammed his joystick
forward with both hands and tore down at the German gunpits.
For a few moments he left the storm of archie far behind, but as
the gunners perceived his intention, it broke out again with
renewed intensity, and the sky around him became an inferno of
smoke and fire.
Crouching low in his cockpit, his lips pressed in a
straight line, he did not swerve an inch. It was neck or nothing
now, and he knew it. His only hope of success lay in speed. Any
delay could only make his task more perilous, for already the
artillery observers on the ground would be ringing up the
Jagdstaffeln (German fighter squadrons), calling on them to deal
with this Englander who must either be mad or intoxicated.
He could see his objective clearly, and he made for it by the
shortest possible course. Twice shells flamed so close to him
that he felt certain the machine must fall in pieces out of his
hands. The wind screamed in his wires and struts and plucked at
his face and shoulders. A flying wire trailed uselessly from the
root of an inter-plane strut, cut through as clean as a carrot by
shrapnel, beating a wild tattoo on the fabric.
Mark was crouching low in the front cockpit, blood -oozing from
a flesh wound in his forehead, caused by flying glass.
It is difficult to keep track of time in such moments. The period
from the start of his dive until he actually reached the objective
was probably not more than three minutes - four at the most -
but to Biggles it seemed an eternity. Time seemed to stand still;
trifling incidents assumed enormous proportions, occurring as
they did with slow deliberation. Thus, he saw a mobile archie
battery, the gun mounted on a motor-lorry, tearing along the
road. He saw it stop, and the well-trained team leap to their
allotted stations; saw the long barrel swing round towards him,
and the first flash of flame from its muzzle. He felt certain the shot
would hit him, and wondered vaguely what the fellows at the
squadron would say about his crazy exploit when he did not
return.
The shell burst fifty feet in front of him, an orange
spurt of flame that was instantly engulfed in a whirling ball of
black smoke. He went straight through it, his propeller churning
the smoke to the four winds, and he gasped as the acrid fumes
bit into his lungs.
He saw the gun fire again, and felt the plunging machine lurch as
the projectile passed desperately close. He did not look back, but
he knew his track must be marked by a solid-looking plume of
black smoke visible for miles. He wondered grimly what the
colonel to whom he had spoken on the telephone was thinking
about it, for he would be watching the proceedings.
Down-down-down, but there was no sensation of falling. The
machine seemed to be stationary, with the earth rushing up to
meet him. At five hundred feet the enemy gun-crew, who could
not resist the temptation of watching him, bolted for their dug-
outs like rabbits when a fox-terrier appears. Perhaps they had
thought it impossible for the British machine to survive such a
maelstrom of fire. Anyway, they left it rather late.
Not until he was within a hundred feet of the ground did Biggles
start to pull the machine out of its dive, slowly, in case he
stripped his wings off as they encount- ered the resistance of the
air. Mark's gun was stuttering, bullets kicking up the earth about
the gunpits in case one of the German gunners, bolder than the
rest, decided to try his luck with a rifle or machine-gun.
The end came suddenly. Biggles saw the target leap towards
him, and at what must have been less than fifty feet, he pulled
his bomb toggle, letting both bombs go together. Then he
zoomed high.
Such was his speed that he was back at a thousand feet when
the two bombs burst simultaneously; but the blast of air lifted
the F.E. like a piece of tissue paper. He fought the machine back
under control, and, without
waiting to see the result of the explosion, tore in a zigzag course
towards his own battery.
At three thousand feet he levelled out and looked back. He had
succeeded beyond his wildest hopes, and knew that he must
have hit the enemy ammunition dump. Flames were still leaping
skyward in a dense pall of black smoke.
With a feeling of satisfaction, he lowered his aerial. His fingers
sought the buzzer key and tapped out the letters G-G-G. The
British gun flashed instantly. The gun-layer was no longer firing
blind, and the shot landed in the middle of the smoking mass.
O.K.-O.K.-O.K. tapped Biggles exultantly.
The second gun of the battery sent its projectile hurtling
towards the Boche gunpits. It was less than one hundred yards
short, but with a visible target to shoot at it required only two or
three minutes to get it ranged on the target. The others
followed.
G-D-0, G-D-0, G-D-0, tapped Biggles enthusiastically,' for G-D-O
was the signal to the gunners to begin firing in their own time.
The four guns were ranged on the target, and they no longer
needed his assistance. With salvo after salvo they pounded the
enemy gunpits out of existence, Biggles and Mark watching the
work of destruction with the satisfaction of knowing their job
had been well done.
Then they looked at each other, and a slow smile spread over
Biggles's face. C H I, C H I, C H I (I am going home) he tapped,
and turned towards the aerodrome. Instantly his smile gave way
to a frown of annoyance. What were the fools doing? A cloud
of white archie smoke had appeared just in front of him. White
archie!
Only British archie was white! Why were they shooting
at him? The answer struck him at the same moment that
Mark yelled and pointed. He lifted up his eyes. Straight across
their front, in the direction they must go, but two thousand feet
above them, a long line of white archie bursts trailed across the
sky. In front of them, always it seemed just out of their reach,
sped a small, straight-winged plane, its top wings were slightly
longer than the lower ones.
Two thoughts rushed into Biggles' mind at once. The first was
that the gunners on the ground had fired the burst close to him
to warn him of his danger, and the second was that the German
machine was an Albatros. There was no mistaking the shark-like
fuselage. Something, an instinct which he could not have
explained, told him it was their old red-and-silver enemy. He was
right-it was. At that moment it turned, and the sun revealed its
colours. It dived towards the British machine, and the archie
gunners were compelled to cease fire for fear of hitting the F.E.
There was no escape. Biggles would have avoided combat had
it been possible, for he was rather worried about the damage the
F.E. might have suffered during its dive. Mark glowered as he
turned his gun towards the persistent enemy, and then
crouched low, waiting for it come into effective range.
But the Hun had no intention of making things so easy. His
machine had already been badly knocked about in the last
effort, an insult which he was probably anxious to avenge, and
intended to see that no such thing occurred again. At two
hundred feet he started shooting,, and Biggles pulled his nose
up to meet him. From that position he would not swerve, for it
was a point of honour in the R.F.C. never to turn away from a
frontal attack, even though the result was a collision.
Just what happened after that he was never quite sure. In trying
to keep his nose on the Hun, who was still coming down from
above, he got it too high up, with the result that one of two
courses was open to him. Either he could let the F.E. stall, in
which case the Hun would get a 'sitting' shot at him at the
moment of stalling-a chance he was not likely to miss-or he
could pull the machine right over in a loop. He chose the latter
course.
As he came out of the loop, he looked round wildly for the Hun.
For a fleeting fraction of an instant he saw him at his own level,
not more than twenty or thirty feet away, going in the opposite
direction. At the same moment he was nearly flung out of his
scat by a jar that jerked him sideways and made the F.E. quiver
from propeller boss to tail skid. His heart stood still, for he felt
certain that his top 'plane, or some other part of the machine,
had broken away, but to his utter amazement it answered to the
controls, and he soon had it on an even keel.
Mark was yelling, jabbing downwards with his finger. Biggles
looked over the side of his cockpit. The Hun was gliding
towards his own Lines.
There seemed to be something wrong with the Albatros-
something missing; and for the moment Biggles could not make
out what it was. Then he saw. It had no propeller! How the
miracle had happened he did not know, and he had already
turned to follow it to administer the knock-out when another yell
from Mark made him change his mind-quickly. A formation of at
least twenty Huns were tearing towards the scene.
Biggles waited for no more. He put his nose down for home and
not until the aerodrome loomed upon the horizon did he ease
the pace. He remembered his aerial,
and took hold of the handle of the reel to wind in the long length
of copper wire with its lead plummet on the end to keep it
extended.
The reel was in place, but there was no aerial, and he guessed
what had happened. He should have wound it in immediately he
had sent the C H I signal, and he knew that if he had done so he
would in all probability by now be lying in a heap of charred
wreckage in No Man's Land. He had forgotten to wind in, and to
that fact he probably owed his life. When he had swung round
after his loop, the wire, with the plummet on the end, must have
swished round like a flail and struck the Boche machine,
smashing its propeller!
The C.O. was waiting for them on the tarmac when they landed.
There was a curious expression on his face, but several other
officers who were standing behind him were smiling expectantly.
'You were detailed for the art obs show to-day, I think,
Bigglesworth,' began Major Paynter coldly.
'That is so, sir,' said Biggles.
'Wing has just been on the telephone to me, and so has the
commander of the battery for whom you were acting. Will you
please tell me precisely what has happened?'
Briefly Biggles related what had occurred. The major did not
move a muscle until he had finished. Then he looked at him with
an expressionless face. 'Far be it from me to discourage zeal or
initiative,' he said, 'but we cannot have this sort of thing. Your
instructions were quite clear- you were to do the shoot for the
artillery. You had no instructions to use bombs, and your action
might have resulted in the loss of a valuable machine. I must
discourage this excess of exuberance,' went on the C.O. 'As a
punishment, you will return
this afternoon to the scene of the affair, taking a camera with
you. I shall require a photograph of the wrecked German battery
on my desk by one hour after sunset. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly, sir.'
'That's all, then. Don't let it happen again.
The artillery think we are trying to do them out their jobs; but it
was a jolly good show all the same!' he concluded, with
something as near a chuckle as his dignity would permit.
Chapter 11
The Camera
There was no hurry. Major Paynter, the C.O., had not named
any particular hour for the 'show'. He had said that the
photographs must be delivered to him by one hour after sunset
and there were still five hours of daylight.
With Mark, Biggles made his way to the mess for a rest, and
over coffee they learned some news that set every member of
the squadron agog with excitement. Toddy, the Recording
Officer, divulged that the equipment of the squadron was to be
changed, the change to take effect as quickly as possible. In
future they were to fly Bristol Fighters.
It transpired that Toddy had been aware of the impending
change for some time, but the orders had been marked 'secret,'
so he had not been allowed to make the information public. But
now that ferry pilots were to start delivering the new machines,
there was no longer any need to keep silent. They might expect
the Bristols to arrive at any time, Toddy told them, and A Flight,
by reason of its seniority, was to have the first.
Biggles, being in A Flight, was overjoyed. He had grown very
attached to his old F.E. which had given him good service, but it
had always been a source of irritation to him, as the pilot, that
the actual shooting
had perforce been left to Mark. In future they would both have
guns, to say nothing of a machine of higher performance.
In the excitement caused by the news the time passed quickly,
and it was nearly two-thirty when they walked towards the
sheds in order to proceed with the work for which they had
been detailed.
Biggles' shoulder had been grazed by a bullet in the morning's
combat with the red-and-silver Albatros, but it caused him no
inconvenience, and he did not bother to report it. Neither had
Mark's wound been very severe, not much more than a scratch,
as he himself said, and it did not occur to him to go 'sick' with it.
It was a clean cut in his forehead about an inch long, caused by
a splinter of flying glass. He had washed it with antiseptic, stuck
a piece of plaster over it, and dismissed it from his mind. On
their way to the hangars they met the medical officer on his way
back from visiting some mechanics who were sick in their huts.
They were about to pass him with a cheerful nod when his eyes
fell on the strip of court-plaster on Mark's forehead. He stopped
and raised his eyebrows. 'Hallo, what have you been up to?' he
asked.
'Up to?' echoed Mark, not understanding.
'What have you done to your head?'
'Oh-that! Nothing to speak of. I stopped a piece of loose glass
in a little affair with a Hun this morning,' replied Mark casually.
'Let me have a look at it.' The M.0. removed the piece of court-
plaster and examined the wound critically. 'Where are you off to
now?' he inquired.
'I've got a short show to do with Bigglesworth.'
'Short or long, you'll do no more flying to-day, my boy; you get
back to your quarters and rest for a bit.
Too much cold air on that cut, and we shall have you down with
erysipelas. I'll speak to the C.O.'.
'But-' began Mark, in astonishment.
'There's no "but" about it,' said the M.0. tersely. 'You do as
you're told, my lad. Twelve hours' rest will put you right. Off
you go!'
Mark looked at Biggles hopelessly.
'Doc's right, Mark,' said Biggles, nodding. 'I ought to have had
the sense to know it myself.' I'll bet your skull aches even now.'
'Not it!' snorted Mark.
'That's all right, doc, I'll find another partner,' asserted Biggles.
'See you later, Mark.'
He made his way to the Squadron Office and reported the matter
to Toddy.
'You wouldn't like to take one of the new fellows, I suppose?'
suggested Toddy, referring to two new observer officers who
had reported for duty the previous evening. 'I think they're
about somewhere.'
'Certainly I will,' replied Biggles. 'Someone will have to take them
over some time, so the sooner the better. It's only a short show,
anyway.'
Toddy dispatched an orderly at the double to find the new
officers, and Biggles awaited their arrival impatiently. He had
already spoken to them, so they were not quite strangers, but
they were of such opposite types that he could not make up his
mind which one to choose. Harris was a mere lad, fair-haired and
blue eyed, straight from school. He had failed in his tests as a
pilot, and was satisfied to take his chances as an aerial gunner
rather than go into the infantry. Culver, the other, was an older
man, a cavalry captain who had seen service in the Dardanelles
before he had transferred to the R.F.C.
They came in quickly, anxious to know what was in the wind.
Briefly, Biggles told them and explained the position. 'Toss for
it,' he suggested. 'That's the fairest way. All I ask is that whoever
comes will keep his eyes wide open and shoot straight, if there is
any shooting to be done.'
Harris won the toss, and with difficulty concealed his
satisfaction, for although Biggles was unaware of it, he-Biggles-
had already achieved the reputation of being one of the best
pilots in the squadron.
'Good enough. Get into your flying kit and get a good gun,'
Biggles said shortly. 'I'll go and start up.'
He was satisfied but by no means enthusiastic about taking the
new man over. Few experienced pilots felt entirely happy in the
company of men new to the job and who had not had an
opportunity of proving themselves. It was not that cowardice
was anticipated. Biggles knew what all experienced flyers
knew: that a man could be as plucky as they make them when on
the ground- might have shown himself to be a fearless fighter in
trench warfare- but until he had been put to the test it was
impossible to say how he would behave in his first air combat;
how he would react to the terrifying sensation of hearing bullets
ripping through spruce and canvas.
As a matter of fact, it was worse for an observer than it was for a
pilot. It needed a peculiar kind of temperament, or courage, to
stand up and face twin machine-guns spouting death at point-
blank range; not only to stand up, but calmly align the sights of
a Lewis gun and return the fire.
There was only one way to find out if a man could do it and that
was to take him into the air. There were some who could not do
it, in the same way, that there were cases of officers who could
not face 'archie.' And after one
or two trips over the Line this was apparent to others, even if it
was not admitted. And it needed a certain amount of courage to
confess. But it was better for an officer to be frank with his C.O.
and tell the truth, rather than throw away his life, and an
aeroplane. Officers reporting 'sick' in this way were either
transferred to ground duties or sent home for instructional work.
Biggles wore a worried frown, therefore, as he walked up to the
sheds. He realized for, the first time just how much confidence
he had in Mark, and the comfort he derived from the knowledge
that he had a reliable man in the observer's cockpit.
They took their places in the machine, and after Biggles had
given Harris a reassuring smile he took off and headed for the
strafed German battery. He would gain all the height he needed
on the way to the Lines, for he proposed to take the
photographs from not higher than five thousand feet. A good
deal of cloud had drifted up from the west, which was annoying,
for it was likely to make his task more difficult. It would not
prevent him reaching his objective, but the C.O. would certainly
not be pleased if he was handed a nice photograph of a large
white cloud.
He crossed the Lines at four thousand, still climbing, and
zigzagged his way through the archie in the direction of the
wrecked German battery. He noted with satisfaction that his new
partner took his baptism of anti-aircraft fire well, for he turned
and smiled cheerfully, even if the smile was a trifle forced. He
was rather
pale, but Biggles paid no attention to that. There are few men
who do not change colour the first time they find themselves
under fire.
The sky seemed clear of aircraft, although the clouds formed
good cover for lurking enemy scouts, and he began to hope the
job might be done in record time. He skirted a massive pile of
cloud, and there, straight before him, lay the scene of his
morning exploit. A grin spread over his face as he surveyed the
huge craters that marked the spot where the enemy battery had
once hidden itself., the job had been done thoroughly, and
headquarters could hardly fail to be pleased.
After a swift glance around he put his nose down and dived,
and then, swinging upwind, he began to expose his plates. In
five minutes he had been over the whole area twice, covering
not only the actual site of the battery, but the surrounding
country. With the satisfaction of knowing that his job had been
well done, he turned for home. 'Good!' he muttered. 'That's that!'
Swinging round another towering mass of opaque mist he ran
into a one-sided dog-fight with a suddenness that almost
caught him off his guard. A lone F.E. was fighting a battle with
five enemy Albatroses.
Now, according to the rules of war flying, this was no affair of
Biggles'. Strictly speaking, the duty of a pilot with a definite
mission was to fulfil that mission and return home as quickly as
possible; but needless to say, this was not always adhered to.
Few pilots could resist the temptation of butting into a dog-
fight, or attacking an enemy machine if one was seen. To leave a
comrade fighting overwhelming odds was unthinkable.
Biggles certainly did not think about it. The combat was going
on at about his own altitude, and although the F.E. had more
than one opportunity of dodging
into the clouds and thereby escaping, the pilot had obviously
made up his mind to see the matter through.
Biggles' lips parted in a smile and he barged into the fight. Then,
to his horror, he saw that his gunner was not even looking at
the milling machines. He had not even seen them. It seemed
incredible. But there it was. And Biggles, remembering his own
blindness when he was a beginner, forgave him. Harris was
gazing at the ground immediately below with an almost bored
expression on his face.
'Hi!' roared Biggles, with the full power of his lungs. 'Get busy!'
Harris' start of astonishment and horror as he looked up just as
a blue Albatros dashed across his nose was almost comical; but
he grabbed his gun like lightning and sent a stream of lead after
the whirling Hun.
Biggles dashed in close to the other F.E. to make his presence
known. A swift signal greeting passed between the two pilots,
and then they set about the work on hand.
The fight did not last many minutes, but it was red hot while it
lasted. One Albatros went down in flames; another glided down
out of control with its engine evidently out of action. The other
three dived for home. Biggles straightened his machine and
looked around for the other F.E., but it had disappeared. He had
not seen it go, so whether it had been shot down, or had merely
proceeded on its way, he was unable to ascertain.
Harris was standing up surveying their own machine ruefully,
for it had been badly shot about. Biggles caught his eye and
nodded approvingly. 'You'll do!' he told himself; for the boy had
undoubtedly acquitted
himself well. Then he continued on his course for the aerodrome.
He reached it without further incident and taxied in, eyes on a
brand new Bristol Fighter that was standing on the tarmac. The
photographic sergeant hurried towards him to collect the camera
and plates, in order to develop them forthwith. Biggles jumped
to the ground, and was about to join the group of officers
admiring the Bristol when a cry from the N.C.O. made him turn.
'What's the matter?' he asked quickly.
'Sorry sir, but look!' said the sergeant apologetically.
Biggles' eyes opened wide as they followed the N.C.O.'s
pointing finger, and then he made a gesture of anger and
disgust. The camera was bent all shapes, and the plate container
was a perforated wreck. There was no need to wonder how it
had happened; a burst of fire from one of the enemy machines
had reduced the camera-to a twisted ruin.
He could see at a glance that the plates were spoilt. His journey
had been in vain. Looking over the machine thoroughly for the
first time he saw that the damage was a good deal worse than he
had thought. Two wires had been severed and one of the hinges
of his elevators shot off. The machine had brought him home
safely, but in its present condition it was certainly not safe to
fly.
'What's the matter?' asked Mapleton, his flight-commander,
seeing that something was wrong.
Briefly, Biggles explained the catastrophe.
'What are you going to do about it?' asked Mabs.
'I'll have to do the show again, that's all about it!' replied Biggles
disgustedly. 'The Old Man was very
decent about this morning's effort. He's waiting for these
photos; I can't let him down.'
'You can't fly that machine again today, that's, a certainty.'
'So I see.'
'Would you like to try the Bristol?'
Biggles started. 'I'd say I would!'
'You can have it if you like, but for the love of Mike don't hurt it.
It's been allotted to me, so it's my pigeon. She's all O.K. and in
fighting trim. I was just off to try her out myself.'
'That's jolly sporting of you' declared Biggles. 'I shan't be long,
and I'll take care of her. Come on, Harris, get your guns- and get
me another camera, sergeant; look sharp, it will soon be dark.'
In a few minutes Biggles was in the air again, on his way to the
enemy battery for the third time that day. He had no difficulty in
flying the Bristol, which was an easy machine to fly, and after a
few practice turns he felt quite at home in it.
He noticed with dismay that the clouds were thickening, and he
was afraid that they might totally obscure the objective. Twice,
as he approached it, he thought he caught sight of a lurking
shadow, dodging through the heavy cloud-bank above him, but
each time he looked it had vanished before he could make sure.
'There's a Hun up there, watching me, or I'm a Dutchman,' he
mused uneasily. 'I hope that kid in the back seat will keep his
eyes skinned.' He shot through a small patch of cloud and
distinctly saw another machine disappear into a cloud just ahead
and above him. It was an Albatros, painted red and silver. 'So
it's you, is it?' he muttered, frowning, for the idea of taking on his
old antagonist with a comparatively untried gunner in the
back seat did not fill him with enthusiasm.
With Mark it would have been a different matter.
He turned sharply into another cloud and approached the
objective on a zigzag course, never flying straight for more than
a few moments at a time. He knew that this would leave the
watcher, if he were still watching, in doubt as to his actual
course, but it was nervy work, knowing that an attack might be
launched at any moment.
As he expected, he found the battery concealed under a thick
layer of grey cloud, but he throttled back and came out below it
at two thousand feet. Instantly he was the target for a dozen
archie batteries, but he ignored them and flew level until he had
exposed all his plates. He was feeling more anxious than he had
ever felt before in the air, not so much for his own safety as for
the safety of Mab's machine, so it was with something like a
sigh of relief that he finished his task, jammed the throttle wide
open, and zoomed upwards through the opaque ceiling.
The instant he cleared the top side of the cloud the
rattle of a machine-gun came to his ears and the Bristol
quivered as a stream of - lead ripped through it. He
whirled round just in time to see the red-and-silver
plane zoom over him, not twenty feet away. Why
hadn't Harris fired? Was he asleep, the young fool?
With his brow black as thunder Biggles twisted round
in his scat and looked behind him. Harris was lying in
a crumpled heap on the side of his cockpit.
Biggles went ice-cold all over. The corners of his mouth turned
down. 'He's got him!' he breathed, and then exposing his teeth,
'You hound!' he grated, and
dragged the Bristol round on its axis and in the direction of the
Albatros, now circling to renew the attack.
If the Boche pilot supposed that the British machine would now
seek to escape he was mistaken. Unknowingly, he was faced
with the most dangerous of all opponents, a pilot who was
fighting mad. A clever, calculating enemy, fighting in cold
blood, was a foe to be respected; but a pilot seeing red and
seething with hate was much worse. For the first time, the war
had become a personal matter with Biggles, and he would have
rammed his adversary if he could have reached him.
The pilot in the black-crossed machine seemed to realize this, for
he suddenly broke off the combat and sought to escape by
diving towards the nearest cloud. Biggles was behind him in a
flash, eye to the Aldis sight. Farther and yet farther forward he
pushed the control-stick, and the distance rapidly closed
between them.
The Hun saw death on his tail and twisted like an eel, but the
Bristol stuck to him as if connected by an invisible wire. A
hundred feet- fifty feet- Biggles drew nearer, but still he did not
fire. The glittering arc of his propeller was nearly touching the
other's elevators. The cross-wires of the Aldis sight cut across
the tail, crept along the fuselage to the brown-helmeted head in
the cockpit.
Biggles knew that he had won and was filled with a savage
exultation. He was so close that every detail of the Boche
machine was indelibly imprinted on his brain. He could see the
tappets of the Mercedes engine working, and the dark smoke
pouring from its exhaust. He could even see the patches over
the old bullet holes in the lower wings. His gloved hand sought
the Bowden lever, closed on it, and gripped it hard. Orange flame darted from
the muzzle of his gun and the harsh metallic clatter of the
cocking handle filled his ears. The Albatros jerked upwards, the
Bristol still on its tail. A tongue of scarlet flame licked along its
side, and a cloud of black smoke poured out of the engine. The
pilot covered his face with his hands.
Biggles turned away, feeling suddenly limp. He seemed to have
awakened with a shock from a vivid dream. Where was he? He
did not know. He saw the Hun break up just as it reached the
lower stratum of cloud, and he followed it down to try to pick up
some landmark that would give him his position. It was with real
relief that he was able to recognize the road near where the
wreck of the Albatros had fallen, and he shot upwards again to
escape the ever-present archie.
For the first time since the fight began he remembered Harris ,
and raced for home. He tried to persuade himself that perhaps he
was only wounded, but in his heart of hearts he knew the truth.
Harris was dead. Four straight-winged 'planes materialized out of
the mist in front of him, but Biggles did not swerve. The feeling
of hate began to surge through him again. 'If you're looking for
trouble you can have it!' he snarled, and tore straight at the
Albatroses.
They opened up to let him go through, and then closed in
behind him. He swerved round a fragment of cloud, and then,
with the speed of light, flung the Bristol on its side with a sharp
intake of breath. It was perhaps only because his nerves were
screwed up to snapping point that he had caught sight of what
seemed to be a fine wire standing vertically in the air.
Without even thinking, he knew it was a balloon cable.
Somewhere above the clouds an enemy observation balloon
was taking a last look round the landscape, or as
much of it as could be seen, before being wound down for the
night. Then an idea struck him, and he swerved in the opposite
direction.
The leading Hun, with his eyes only on the Bristol was round in
a flash to cut across the arc of the circle and intercept him, and
Biggles witnessed just what he hoped would happen- the picture
of a machine colliding with a balloon cable. It was a sight
permitted to very few war pilots, although it actually happened
several times.
The cable tore the top and bottom port wings off the Albatros as
cleanly as if they had been sheared through with an axe. The
machine swung round in its own length, and the pilot was flung
clean over the centre section. He fell, clutching wildly at space.
Biggles saw that the cable had parted, and that the other
machines were hesitating, watching their failing leader. Then
they came on again. They overtook him before he reached the
Lines, as he knew they would. A bullet splashed into his
instrument-board, and he had no alternative but to turn and face
them.
With a steady gunner in the back seat he would have felt no
qualms as to the ultimate result of the combat, but with his rear
gun silent he was much worse off than the single-seaters, as he
had a larger machine to handle. To make matters worse, the
Lewis gun, pointing up to the sky in the rear cockpit, told its
own story. The enemy pilots knew that his gunner was down,
and that they could get on his tail with impunity.
The three Boche pilots were evidently old hands, for they
separated and then launched an attack from three directions
simultaneously. The best that Biggles could do was to take on
one machine at a time, yet while he
was engaging it his flanks and tail were exposed to the attacks
of the other two.
Several bullets struck the Bristol, and it began to look as if his
luck had broken at last. He fought coolly, without the all-
devouring hate that had consumed him when he attacked the
red-and-silver Albatros. These methods would not serve him
now.
He tried to break out of the circle into which they had
automatically fallen, in order to reach the shelter of the clouds,
but a devastating blast of lead through his centre section
warned him of the folly of turning his back on them. He swung
round again to meet them. A shark-like aircraft, painted dark
green and buff, circled to get behind him; the other two were
coming in from either side. His position, he knew, was critical.
Then a miracle happened, or so it seemed. The circling Hun
broke into pieces and hurtled earthwards! Biggles stared, and
then understood. A drab-coloured single-seater, wearing red,
white, and blue ring markings, swept across his nose. It was a
Sopwith Pup. He looked around quickly for others, but it was
alone.
Its advent soon decided matters. The black-crossed machines
dived out of the fight and disappeared into the clouds. Biggles
waved his hand to the single-seater pilot and they turned
towards the Lines. The Pup stayed with him until the aerodrome
loomed up through the gloom, and then disappeared as
magically as it arrived.
Biggles felt for his Very pistol and fired a red light over the side.
The ruddy glow cast a weird light over the twilight scene. He
saw the ambulance start out almost before his wheels had
touched the ground, and he taxied to meet it. Mabs and Mark
were following it at a brisk trot; the C.O. was standing in the doorway of the
squadron office.
Mark, with a bandage round his head, caught Biggles' eye as
two R.A.M.C men gently lifted the dead observer from his seat.
Biggles did not look; he felt that tears were not far away, and
was ashamed of his weakness. He taxied up to the sheds and
climbed wearily to the around.
'How did the Bristol go?' asked Mabs awkwardly.
'Bristol? Oh, yes-fine, thanks!'
The photographic sergeant removed the camera.
'See that the prints are in the squadron office as quickly as you
can manage it,' Biggles told him.
'Lucky for me the doc made me stay at home,' observed Mark.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'Maybe. On the other hand, it
might not have happened if you'd been there.'
'How did it happen?' asked the C.O., coming up.
Briefly Biggles told him.
'Anyway, it's some consolation that you got the Hun,' said the
C.O.
'Yes, I got him!' answered Biggles grimly.
'And the photos?'
'You'll have them in time, sir.'
'Cheer up, whispered Mark, as they walked slowly towards the
mess. 'It's a beastly business, but it's no good getting down-
hearted.'
'I know,' replied Biggles. 'It's the sort of thing that's liable to
happen to any of us-will happen, I expect, before we're very
much older. But it was tough luck for Harris. He'd only been
here about five minutes, and now he's gone- gone before he fully
realized what he was up against. It's ghastly.'
'It's a war!' retorted Mark. 'Try to forget it, or we'll have you
getting nervy. The other Bristols will be here in the morning,' he
added, changing the subject.
'Mahoney, of 266, is on the 'phone asking for you,' shouted
Toddy, as they passed the squadron office. 'He asked me who
was in the Bristol, and when I told him it was you he said he'd
like to have a word with you.'
Biggles picked up the receiver.'Hallo, Mahoney!' he said.
'You'll be saying hallo to the Flanders poppies if you don't
watch your step, my lad!' Mahoney told him seriously.
Biggles started. 'What do you know about it?' he asked quickly.
'Know about it? I like that,' growled Mahoney, over the wire. 'Is
that all the thanks I get-?'
'Was that you in the Pup?' interrupted Biggles, suddenly
understanding.
'What other fool do you suppose would risk being fried alive to
get a crazy Bristol out of a hole? You ought to look where
you're going. Have you bought the sky, or something?'
'Why, have you sold it?' asked Biggles naively.
There was a choking noise at the other end of the wire. Then:
'You watch your step, laddie! We want you in 266. The Old
Man has already sent in an application for your transfer, but it
looks to me as if he's wasted his time. You'll be cold meat before-
'
'Oh, rats!' grinned Biggles. 'I'm just beginning to learn
something about this game. You watch your perishing
Pup!'
'Well, we're quits now, anyway,' observed Mahoney.
'That's as it should be,' replied Biggles. 'Meet me
tonight in the town and I'll stand you a dinner on the strength
of it.'
'I'll be there!' Mahoney told him briskly. 'Bring your wallet- you'll
need it!'
Chapter 12
The 'Show'
Biggles had just left the fireside circle preparatory to going to
bed when Major Paynter entered the officers' mess.
'Pay attention, everybody, please!' said the major, rather
unnecessarily, for an expectant hush had fallen on the room. 'A
big attack along this entire section of Front has been planned to
come into operation in the near future. If weather conditions
permit, it may start tomorrow morning. As far as this squadron is
concerned, every available machine will leave the ground at
dawn, and, flying as low as possible, harass the enemy's troops
within the boundaries you'll find marked on the large map in the
squadron office. Each machine will carry eight Cooper bombs
and work independently, concentrating on preventing the
movement of enemy troops on the roads leading to the Front.
Every officer will do three patrols of two and a half hours each,
daily, until further notice.
'The greatest care must be exercised in order that pilots and
observers do not fire on our own troops, who will disclose their
positions, as far as they are able, with Very lights and ground
strips. Their objective is the high ridge which at present runs
about two miles in front of our forward positions. These are the
orders, gentlemen. I understand that all British machines not
actually engaged in ground strafing will be in the air, either
bombing back areas or protecting the low-flying
machines from air attack. I need hardly say that the higher
command relies implicitly on every officer carrying out his duty
to the best possible advantage; the impending battle may have
very decisive results on the progress of the War. I think that's
all. All previous orders are cancelled. Officers will muster on the
tarmac at six-fifty, by which time it should be light enough to
see to take off. Good night, everybody.'
A babble of voices broke out as the C.O. left the mess.
'That's the stuff!' declared Mark Way, enthusiastically.
Mabs eyed him coldly. 'Have you done any trench strafing?' he
asked. 'I don't mean just emptying your guns into the Lines as
you come back from an O.P., but as a regular job during one of
these big offensives?'
Mark shook his head. 'As a matter of fact, I haven't,' he
admitted.
Mabs grinned sarcastically. 'Inside three days you'll be
staggering about looking for somewhere to sleep. But there
won't be any sleep. You're going to know what hard work is
for the first time in your life. I was in the big spring offensive
last year, and the Hun counter-attack that followed it, and by
the time it was over I never wanted to see another aeroplane
again as long as I lived. You heard what the Old Man said- three
shows a day. By this time tomorrow you won't be able to see the
ground for crashes, and those that can still fly will have to do
the work of the others as well as their own.'
'You're a nice cheerful cove, I must say!' said Biggles.
'Well, you might as well know what we're in for,' returned Mabs,
'and it won't come as a surprise! When you've flown up and
down a double artillery barrage for a couple of hours you'll
know what flying is.' He rose and made for the door. 'I'm going
to hit the sheets,' he announced. 'Get to bed, officers of A
Flight, please. It may be the last chance you'll get for some time!'
There was a general move towards the door as he disappeared.
'Tired or not, I've got an appointment with a steak and chips in
Rouen tomorrow night,' declared Curtiss, of B Flight, yawning,
little dreaming that he was going to bed for the last time in his
life.
The tarmac, just before daybreak the following morning was a
scene of intense activity. Nine big, drab-coloured Bristol
Fighters stood in line in front of the flight sheds, with a swarm
of air mechanics bustling about them, adjusting equipment and
fitting Cooper bombs on the bomb racks. Propellers were being
turned round and engines started up, while the rat-tat-tat-tat of
machine-guns came from the direction of the gun-testing pits.
Biggles' fitter was standing by his machine.
'Everything all right?' asked Biggles.
'All ready, sir,' was the reply.
'Suck in, then!' called Biggles, as he climbed into his cockpit.
'Suck in' was the signal to suck petrol into the cylinders of the
engine.
Mark, his gunner, disappeared for a few moments, to return with
a Lewis gun, which he adjusted on the Scarff mounting round
the rear seat. A mechanic handed up a dozen drums of
ammunition.
The engine roared into pulsating life, and Biggles fixed his cap
and goggles securely as he allowed it to warm up. Mabs'
machine, wearing streamers on wing
tips and tail, began to taxi out into position to take off. The
others followed. For a minute or two they waddled across the
soaking turf like a flock of ungainly geese. Then, with a roar that
filled the heavens, they skimmed into the air and headed
towards the Lines. They kept no particular formation, but
generally followed the direction set by the leader. The work
before them did not call for close formation flying.
A watery sun, still low on the eastern horizon, cast a feeble and
uncertain light over the landscape, the British reserve trenches,
and the war-scarred battlefields beyond. Patches of ground mist
still hung here and there towards the west, but for the most part
the ground lay fairly clear. Signs of the activity on the ground
were at once apparent. Long lines of marching men, guns,
horses, and ammunition wagons were winding like long grey
caterpillars towards the Front. A group of queer-looking toad-
like monsters slid ponderously over the mud, and Biggles
watched them for a moment with interest. He knew they were
tanks, the latest engines of destruction.
The ground was dull green, with, big bare patches, pock-marked
with holes, some of which were still smoking, showing where
shells had recently fallen. A clump of shattered trees, blasted
into bare, gaunt spectres, marked the site of what had once been
a wood. Straight ahead, the green merged into a dull brown sea
of mud, flat except for the craters and shell-holes, marked with
countless zigzag lines of trenches in which a million men were
crouching in readiness for the coming struggle.
Beyond the patch of barren mud the green started again, dotted
here and there with roofless houses and shattered villages. In
the far distance a river wound like
a gleaming silver thread towards the horizon. Spouting columns
of flame and clouds of smoke began to appear in the sea of mud;
the brown earth was flung high into the air by the bursting
shells.
It was a depressing sight, and Biggles, turning his
eyes upwards, made out a number of black specks
against the pale blue sky. They were the escorting
scouts. In one place a dog-fight was raging, and he
longed to join it, but the duty on hand forbade it. He
nestled a little lower in his cockpit, for the air was cold
and damp, so cold that his fingers inside the thick
gauntlets were numbed. They had nearly reached the
Lines now, so he turned his eyes to Mabs' machine,
watching for the signal Very light that would announce
the attack. It came, a streak of scarlet flame that
described a wide parabola before it began to drop
earthwards. Simultaneously the machine from which it
had appeared roared down towards the ground. The
open formation broke up as each pilot selected his own
target and followed.
Biggles saw the welter of mud leaping up at him as he thrust the
control-stick forward, eyes probing the barren earth for the
enemy. Guns flashed like twinkling stars in all directions. He saw
a Pup, racing low, plunge nose-first into the ground to be
swallowed up by an inferno of fire.
Charred skeletons of machines lay everywhere, whether friend
or foe it was impossible to tell. Lines of white tracer bullets
streamed upwards, seeming to move quite slowly. Something
smashed against the engine cowling of the Bristol and Biggles
ducked instinctively.
Rat-tat-tat-tat! Mark's gun began its staccato chatter, but Biggles
did not look round to see what he was
shooting at; his eyes were on the ground. The sky above would
have to take care of itself. The needle of his altimeter was falling
steadily; five hundred feet, four hundred, yet he forced it lower,
throttle wide open, until the ground flashed past at incredible
speed.
He could hear the guns now, a low rumble that reminded him of
distant thunder on a summer's day. He heard bullets ripping
through the machine somewhere behind him, and kicked hard on
right rudder, swerving farther into enemy country. He could still
see Mabs' machine some distance ahead and to the left of him,
nose tilted down to the ground, a stream of tracer bullets
pouring from the forward gun.
Something tapped him sharply on the shoulder and he looked
round in alarm. Mark was pointing. Following the outstretched
finger he picked out a mudchurned road. A long column of
troops in field-grey were marching along it, followed by guns or
wagons, he could not tell which.
He swung the Bristol round in its own length, noting with a
curious sense of detachment that had he continued flying on
his original course for another two seconds the machine must
have been blown to smithereens, for a jagged sheet of flame split
the air; it was too large for an ordinary archie and must have
been a shell from a field-gun. Even as it was, the Bristol bucked
like a wild horse in the blast.
He tilted his nose down towards the German infantry and
watched them over the top of his engine cowling. His hand
sought the bomb-toggle. There was a rending clatter as a stream
of machine-gun bullets made a colander of his right wing; a wire
snapped with a sharp twang, but he did not alter his course.
A cloud of smoke, mixed with lumps of earth, shot
high into the air not fifty yards away, and again the
machine rocked. He knew that any second might be his last, but
the thought did not worry him. Something at the back of his
mind seemed to be saying: 'This is war, war, war!' and he hated
it. This was not his idea of flying; it was just a welter of death
and destruction.
The enemy troops were less than five hundred yards
away, and he saw the leaders pointing their rifles at
him. He drew level with the head of the column, and
jerked the bomb-toggle savagely. Then he kicked the
rudder-bar hard, and at the same time jerked the
control-stick back; even so, he was nearly turned upside-
down by the force of the explosions, and clods of earth
and stones dropped past him from above.
He glanced down. The earth was hidden under a great cloud of
smoke. Again he swept down, tore straight along the road, and
released the remainder of his bombs. Again he zoomed
upwards.
The air was filled with strange noises; the crash of bursting
shells, the clatter of his broken wire beating against a strut, and
the slap-slap-slap of torn fabric on his wings. Mark's gun was
still chattering, which relieved him, for it told him that all was
still well with his partner. He half-turned and glanced back at the
place where he had dropped his bombs.
There were eight large, smoking holes, around which a number
of figures were lying; others were running a away. It struck him
that he was some way over the Lines, so he turned again and
raced back towards the conspicuous stretch of No Man's Land,
across which figures were now hurrying at a clumsy run. Nearer
to him a number of grey-coated troops were clustered around a
gun, and he sprayed them with a shower of lead as he passed.
He reached the Line, and raced along it, keeping well over the
German side to make sure of not hitting any British troops who
might have advanced. Burst after burst he poured into the
trenches and at the concrete pill-boxes in which machine-guns
nestled.
He passed a Bristol lying upside-down on the ground, and a
scout seemingly undamaged. Mark tapped him on the shoulder,
turned his thumbs down and pointed to his gun, and Biggles
knew that he meant that his ammunition was finished.
'I'll finish mine, too, and get out of this!' he thought. 'I've had
about enough.' He took sights on a group of men who were
struggling to drag a field-gun to the rear, and they flung
themselves flat as the withering hail smote them. Biggles held
the Bowden lever of his gun down until the gun ceased firing,
then turned and raced towards his own side of the Lines.
Some Tommies waved to him as he skimmed along not fifty feet
above their heads. Mark returned the salutation. The Bristol
rocked as it crossed the tracks of heavy shells, and Biggles
breathed a sigh of relief as they left the war zone behind them.
Five machines, one of which was Mabs' had already returned
when they landed, their crews standing about on the tarmac
discussing the 'show.'
'Well, what do you think of it?' asked the flight commander as
Biggles and Mark joined them.
'Rotten!' replied Biggles buffing his arms to restore circulation.
He felt curiously exhausted, and began to understand the strain
that low flying entails.
'Get filled up, and then rest while you can. We leave the ground
again in an hour!' Mabs told them. 'The
enemy are giving way all along the sector and we've got to
prevent them bringing up reinforcements.'
'I see,' replied Biggles, without enthusiasm. 'In that case we
might as well go down to the mess. Come on, Mark.'
Chapter 13
Dirty Work
For three days the attack continued. The squadron lost four
machines; two others were unserviceable. The remainder were
doing four shows a day, and Biggles staggered about almost
asleep on his feet. Life had become a nightmare. Even when he
flung himself on his bed at night he could not sleep. In his ears
rang the incessant roar of his engine, and his bed seemed to
stagger in the bumps of bursting shells, just as the Bristol had
done during the day. Mabs had gone to hospital with a bullet
through the leg, and new pilots were arriving to replace
casualties.
On the fourth morning he made his way, weary and
unrefreshed, to the sheds; Mark, who was also feeling the
strain, had preceded him. They seldom spoke. They no longer
smiled. Mark eyed him grimly as he reached the Bristol and
prepared to climb into his seat. 'Why so pale and wan, young
airman, prithee why so pale?' he misquoted mockingly.
Biggles looked at him coldly. 'I'm sick and I'm tired,' he said,
'and I've got a nasty feeling that our turn is about due. Just a
hunch that something's going to happen, that's all,' he
concluded shortly.
'You'll make a good undertaker's clerk when this is over, you
cheerful jonah!' growled Mark.
'Well, come on, let's get on with it. Personally, I'm beyond
caring what happens,' replied Biggles, climbing into his seat.
He was thoroughly sick of the war; the futility of it appalled
him. He envied the scouts circling high in the sky as they
protected the low-flying trench strafers; they were putting in
long hours, he knew, but they did at least escape the
everlasting fire from the ground. Above all he sympathized with
the swarms of human beings crawling and falling in the sea of
mud below.
He took off and proceeded to the sector allotted to the
squadron, and where four of its machines now lay in heaps of
wreckage. For some minutes he flew up and down the Line,
trying to pick out the new British advance posts, for the enemy
were still retiring; it would be an easy matter to make a mistake
and shoot up the hard-won positions that a few days before
had been in German hands.
Archie and field-guns began to cough and bark as he
approached the new German front Line, and machine guns
chattered shrilly, but he was past caring about such things.
There was no way of avoiding them; they were just evils that
had to be borne. One hoped for the best and carried on.
The battle was still raging. It was difficult to distinguish
between the British and German troops, they seemed so
hopelessly intermingled, so he turned farther into German
territory rather than risk making a mistake.
He found a trench in which a swarm of troops were feverishly
repairing the parapet, and forced them to seek cover. Then he
turned sharp to the right and broke up another working-party;
there were no more long convoys to attack, but he found a
German staff car and chased it until the driver, taking a corner
too fast in his efforts to escape, overturned it in a ditch.
For some minutes he worried a battery of field-guns
that were taking up a new position. Then he turned back
towards the Lines- or the stretch of No man's Land that had
originally marked the trench system.
He was still half a mile away when it happened. Just what it was
he could not say, although Mark swore it was one of the new
'chain' archies- two phosphorus flares joined together by a
length of wire that wrapped itself around whatever it struck, and
set it on fire. The Bristol lurched sickeningly, and for a moment
went out of control.
White-faced, Biggles fought with the control-stick to get the
machine on even keel again, for at his height of a thousand feet
there was very little margin of safety. He had just got the
machine level when a wild yell and a blow on the back of his
head brought him round, staring.
Aft of the gunner's cockpit the machine was a raging sheet of
flame, which Mark was squirting with his Pyrene extinguisher,
but without visible effect. As the extinguisher emptied itself of
its contents he flung it overboard and set about beating the
flames with his gauntlets.
Biggles did the only thing he could do in the circumstances; he
jammed the control-stick forward and dived in a frantic effort to
'blow out' the flames with his slipstream. Fortunately his nose
was still pointing towards the Lines, and the effort brought him
fairly close, but the flames were only partly subdued and
sprang to life again as he eased the control-stick back to
prevent the machine from diving into the ground.
The Bristol answered to the controls so slowly that his wheels
actually grazed the turf, and he knew at once what had
happened. The flames had burnt through to his tail unit
destroying the fabric on his elevators,
rendering the fore and aft controls useless. He knew it was the
end, and, abandoning hope of reaching the Lines, he
concentrated his efforts on saving their lives. He thought and
acted with a coolness that surprised him.
He tilted the machine on to its side, holding up his nose with the
throttle, and commenced to slip wing-tip first towards the
ground. Whether he was over British or German territory he
neither knew nor cared; he had to get on to the ground or be
burnt alive.
A quick glance behind revealed Mark still thrashing the flames
with his glove, shielding his face with his left arm. Twenty feet
from the ground Biggles switched off everything and
unfastened his safety belt. The prop stopped. In the moment's
silence he yelled 'Jump!'
He did not wait to see if Mark had followed his instructions, for
there was no time, but climbed quickly out of his cockpit on to
the wing just as the tip touched the ground. He had a fleeting
vision of what seemed to be a gigantic catherine wheel as the
machine cartwheeled over the ground, shedding struts and
flaming canvas, and then he lay on his back, staring at the sky,
gasping for breath.
For a ghastly moment he thought his back was broken, and he
struggled to rise in an agony of suspense. He groaned as he
fought for breath, really winded for the first time in his life.
Mark appeared by his side and clutched at his shoulders. 'What
is it-what is it?' he cried, believing that his partner was mortally
hurt.
Biggles could not speak, he could only gasp. Mark caught him
by the collar and dragged him into a nearby trench. They fell in a
heap at the bottom.
'Not hurt -winded!' choked Biggles. 'Where are we?'
Mark took a quick look over the parapet, and then jumped back,
shaking his head. 'Dunno!' he said laconically. 'Can't see
anybody. All in the trenches, I suppose.'
Biggles managed to stagger to his feet. 'We'd better lie low till
we find out where we are!' he panted. 'What a mess! Let's get in
here!' He nodded towards the gaping mouth of a dugout.
Footsteps were squelching through the mud towards them, and
they dived into the dugout, Biggles leading. He knew instantly
that the place was already occupied, but in the semi-darkness he
could not for a moment make out who or what it was. Then he
saw, and his eyes went round with astonishment. It was a
German, cowering in a corner.
'Kamerad! Kamerad!' cried the man, with his arms above his
head.
'All right, we shan't hurt you,' Biggles assured him, kicking a rifle
out of the way. 'It looks as if we're all in the same boat, but if you
try any funny stuff I'll knock your block off!'
The German stared at him wide-eyed, but made no reply.
There was a great noise of splashing and shouting in the trench
outside; a shell landed somewhere close at hand with a
deafening roar, and a trickle of earth fell from the ceiling.
Mark grabbed Biggles' arm as a line of feet passed the entrance;
there was no mistaking the regulation German boots, but if
confirmation was needed, the harsh, guttural voices supplied it.
They both breathed more freely as the feet disappeared and the noise receded.
'It looks as if we've landed in the middle of the war,' observed
Biggles, with a watchful eye on the Boche,
who still crouched in his corner as if dazed- as indeed he was.
'What are we going to do? We can't spend the rest of the war in
here,' declared Mark.
'I wouldn't if I could,' replied Biggles. 'But it's no use doing
anything in a hurry.'
'Some Boche troops will come barging in here in a minute and
hand us a few inches of cold steel; they're not likely to be
particular after that hullaballoo outside.'
Hullaballoo was a good word; it described things exactly. There
came a medley of sounds in which shouts, groans, rifle and
revolver shots and the reports of bursting hand-grenades could
be distinguished.
'It sounds as if they're fighting all round us,' muttered Mark
anxiously.
'As long as they stay round us I don't mind,' Biggles told him.
'It'll be when they start crowding in here that the fun will begin!'
Heavy footsteps continued to splash up and down the
communication trench. Once a German officer stopped outside
the dugout and Biggles held his breath. The Boche seemed to
be about to enter, but changed his mind and went off at a run.
Then there came the sound of a sharp scuffle in the trench and
a German N.C.O. leapt panting into the dugout. He glanced
around wildly as the two airmen started up, and broke into a
torrent of words. He was splashed with mud from head to foot,
and bleeding from a cut in the cheek. He carried a rifle, but made no attempt to
use it.
'Steady!' cried Biggles, removing the weapon from the man's
unresisting hands. The Boche seemed to be trying to tell them
something, pointing and gesticulating as he spoke.
'I think he means that his pals outside are coming in,' said
Biggles With a flash of inspiration. 'Well, there's still plenty of
room.'
'Anybody in there?' cried a voice from the doorway.
Before Biggles could speak the German had let out a yell.
'Just share this among you, but don't quarrel over it!' went on
the same voice.
'This' was a Mills bomb that pitched on to the floor between
them.
There was a wild stampede for the door; Biggles slipped, and
was the last out. He had just flung himself clear as the dugout
went up with a roar that seemed to burst his eardrums. He
looked up to see the point of a bayonet a few inches from his
throat; behind it was the amazed face of a British Tommy.
The soldier let out a whistle of surprise. More troops came
bundling round the corner of the trench, an officer among them.
'Hallo, what's all this?' he cried, halting in surprise.
'Don't let us get in your way,' Biggles told him quickly. 'Go on
with the war!'
'What might you be doing here?'
'We might be blackberrying, but we're not. Again, we might be
playing croquet, or roller-skating, but we're not. We're just
waiting.'
'Waiting! What for?'
'For you blokes to come along, of course. I've got a date with a
bath and a bar of soap, so I'll be getting along.'
'You'd better get out of this,' the other told him, grinning, as he
prepared to move on.
'That's what I thought!' declared Biggles. 'Perhaps you'd tell us
the easiest and safest way?'
The other laughed. 'Sure I will,' he said. 'Keep straight on down
that sap we've just come up and you'll come to our old Line.
It's all fairly quiet now.'
'So I've noticed,' murmured Biggles. 'Come on, Mark, let's get
back to where we belong.'
'What about the Bristol?' asked Mark.
'What about it? Are you thinking of carrying it back with you? I
didn't stop to examine it closely, as you may have noticed, but I
fancy that kite, or what's left of it, will take a bit of sticking
together again. We needn't worry about that. The repair section
will collect it, if it's any good. Come on!'
Three hours later, weary and smothered with mud, they arrived
back at the aerodrome, having got a lift part of the way on a
lorry.
Mabs, on crutches, was standing at the door of the mess.
'Where have you been?' he asked.
'Ha! Where haven't we!' replied Biggles, without stopping.
'Where are you off to now in such a hurry?' called Mabs after
him.
'To bed, laddie,' Biggles told him enthusiastically. 'To bed, till
you find me another aeroplane.'
Chapter 14
The Pup's First Flight
When the time came for Biggles to leave his old squadron and
say good-bye to Mark Way, his gunner, he found himself a
good deal more depressed than he had thought possible; he
realized for the first time just how attached to them he had
become. Naturally, he had been delighted to join a scout
squadron, for he had always wanted to fly single-seaters. The
presence of his old pal, Mahoney, who was flight-commander,
prevented any awkwardness or strangeness amongst his new
comrades, and he quickly settled down to routine work.
The commanding, officer, Major Mullen, of his new squadron,
No. 266, stationed at Maranique, allowed none of his pilots to
take unnecessary risks if he could prevent it. So he gave
Biggles ten days in which to make himself proficient in the
handling of the single seater Pup that had been allocated to him.
Biggles was told to put in as much flying-time as possible, but
on no account to cross the Lines, and he found that the
enforced rest from eternal vigilance did him a power of good, for
his nerves had been badly jarred by his late spell of trench
strafing.
By the end of a week he was thoroughly at home with the Pup,
and ready to try his hand at something more serious than
beetling up and down behind his own Lines. He had noted all
the outstanding landmarks around Maranique, and once or
twice he accompanied
Mahoney on practice formation flights. His flight-commander
had expressed himself satisfied, and Biggles begged to be
allowed to do a 'show.'
His chance came soon. Lorton was wounded in the arm and
packed off to hospital, and Biggles was detailed to take his place
the following morning. But the afternoon before this decision
took effect he had what he regarded as a slice of luck that
greatly enhanced his reputation with the C.O., and the officers of
the squadron, as well as bringing his name before Wing
Headquarters.
He had set off on a cross-country flight to the Aircraft Repair
Section at St Omer, to make inquiries for the equipment officer
about a machine that had gone back for reconditioning, when he
spotted a line of white archie bursts at a very high altitude- about
15,000 feet, he judged it to be.
He was flying at about 5,000 feet a few miles inside the Lines at the
time, and he knew that the archie was being fired by British
guns, which could only mean that the target was an enemy
aircraft. It seemed to be flying on a course parallel with the Lines,
evidently on a photographic or scouting raid.
Without any real hope of overtaking it he set off in pursuit, and,
knowing that sooner or later the German would have to turn to
reach his own side he steered an oblique course that would bring
him between the raider and the Lines. In a few minutes he had
increased his height to 10,000 feet, and could distinctly see the
enemy machine. It was a Rumpler two-seater. He had no doubt
that the observer had spotted him, but the
machine continued on its way as if the pilot was not concerned,
possibly by reason of his superior altitude.
Biggles began to edge a little nearer to the Lines, and was not
much more than a thousand feet below the Hun, when, to his
disgust, it turned slowly and headed off on a diagonal course
towards No Man's Land.
The Pup was climbing very slowly now, and it was more with
hope than confidence that Biggles continued the pursuit. Then
the unexpected happened. The enemy pilot turned sharply and
dived straight at him, but opened fire at much too great a range
for it to be effective, although he held the burst for at least a
hundred rounds. Biggles had no idea where the bullets went, but
he saw the Hun, at the end of his dive, zoom nearly back to his
original altitude, and then make for home at full speed. But he
had lingered just a trifle too long.
Biggles climbed up into the 'blind' spot under the enemy's
elevators, and although the range was still too long for good
shooting, he opened fire. Whether any of his shots took effect
he was unable to tell, but the Hun was evidently alarmed, for the
Rumpler made a quick turn out of the line of fire. It was a clumsy
turn, and cost him two hundred precious feet of height at a
moment when height was all-important. Moreover, it did not give
the gunner in the back seat a chance to use his weapon.
Biggles seized his opportunity and fired one of the longest
bursts he ever fired in his life. The German gunner swayed for a
moment, then collapsed in his cockpit. Then, to his intense
satisfaction, Biggles saw the propeller of the other machine slow
down and stop, whereupon the enemy pilot shoved his nose
down and dived for the Lines, now not more than two or three miles
away.
It was a move that suited Biggles well, for the
Rumpler was defenceless from the rear, so he tore down in
hot pursuit, guns blazing, knowing that the Hun was
at his mercy. The enemy pilot seemed to realize this
for he turned broadside on and threw up his hands in
surrender.
Biggles was amazed, for although he had heard of such things
being done it was his first experience of it. He ceased firing at
once and took up a position on the far side of the disabled
machine; he did not trust his prisoner very much, for he guessed
that he would, if the opportunity arose, make a dash for the
Lines- so near, and yet so far away. Biggles therefore
shepherded him down like a well-trained sheep-dog bringing in a
stray lamb.
He could not really find it in his heart to blame the
enemy pilot for surrendering. The fellow had had to
choose between being made prisoner and certain death,
and had chosen captivity as the lesser of the two evils.
'Death before capture,' is no doubt an admirable
slogan, but it loses some of its attractiveness in the face
of cold facts.
The German landed about four miles from Maranique and was
prevented by a crowd of Tommies from purposely injuring his
machine. Biggles landed in a near-by field and hurried to the
scene, arriving just as the C.O. and several officers of the
squadron, who had witnessed the end of the combat from the
aerodrome, dashed up in the squadron car. It was purely a
matter of luck that Major Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, who
had been on the aerodrome talking with Major Mullen, was with
them.
He smiled at, Biggles approvingly. 'Good show!' he said. 'We've
been trying to get hold of one of these machines intact for a
long time.'
Biggles made a suitable reply and requested that the crew of the
Rumpler should be well cared for. The pilot, whose name they
learnt was Schmidt, looked morose and bad-tempered -as,
indeed, he had every cause to be; the observer had been
wounded in the chest and was unconscious.
They were taken away under escort in an ambulance, and that
was the end of the affair. Biggles never learned what happened
to them.
The offensive patrol for which he had been detailed in place of
Lorton turned out to be a more difficult business. It began quite
simply. He took his place in a formation of five machines, and for
an hour or more they cruised up and down their sector without
incident, except, of course, for the inevitable archie. Then the
trouble started around a single machine.
Several times they had passed a British machine, an R.E.8-
circling over the same spot, obviously engaged in doing a
'shoot' for the artillery, and Biggles was able to sympathize with
the pilot. He watched the circling 'plane quite dispassionately
for a moment or two, glanced away, and then turned back to the
R.E.8. It was no longer there.
He stared-and stared harder. Then he saw it, three thousand feet
below, plunging earthwards in flames. Screwing his head round
a little farther he made out three German Albatros streaking for
home. They must have made their attack on the two-seater
under the
very noses of the Pups, and, well satisfied with the result of their
work, were removing themselves from the vicinity without loss of
time. But they were well below the Pups, and Mahoney, who was
leading, tore down after them in a screaming dive, closely
followed by the rest of the formation.
As they went down, something- he could not say what- made
Biggles, who was an outside flank man, look back over his
shoulder. There was really no reason why he should but the fact
that he did so provided another example of the uncanny instinct
he was developing for detecting the presence of Huns.
The sight that met his gaze put all thought of the escaping
Albatroses clean out of his head. A German High Patrol of not
fewer than twenty Triplanes were coming down like the
proverbial ton of bricks.
Biggles' first idea was to warn Mahoney of the impending
onslaught, but, try as he would, he could not overtake his leader.
Yet he knew that if the Huns were allowed to come on in a solid
formation on their tails, most of them would be wiped out before
they knew what had hit them. He could think of only one thing to
do, and he did it, although it did not occur to him that he was
making something very much like a deliberate sacrifice of his own
life. That he was not killed was due no doubt to the very
unexpectedness of his move, which temporarily disorganized the
Hun circus. He swung the Pup round on its axis, cocked up his
nose to face the oncoming Huns, and let drive at the whole
formation.
The leader swerved just in time to avoid head-on
collision. His wing tip missed Biggles by inches. The lightning
turn threw the others out of their places, and they, too, had to
swerve wildly to avoid collision with their leader.
Biggles held his breath as the cloud of gaudy-coloured enemy
machines roared past him, so close that he could see the faces of
the pilots staring at him. Yet not a bullet touched his machine.
Nor did he hit one of them- at least, as far as he could see.
The Huns pulled up, hesitating, to see if their leader was going
on after the other Pups or staying to slay the impudent one. At
that moment, Mahoney, missing one of his men, looked back. In
that quick flash it must have seemed to him that Biggles was
taking on the entire German Air Force single-handed, and he
hung his Pup on its prop as he headed back towards the melee.
He knew what Biggles himself did not know; that the German
formation was the formidable Richthofen
circus, led by the famous Baron himself, his conspicuous all-red
Fokker triplane even then pouring lead at the lone Pup.
Biggles could never afterwards describe the sensation of finding
himself in the middle of Germany's most noted air fighters. He
was, as he put it, completely flummoxed. He merely shot at every
machine that swam across his sights, wondering all the while
why his Pup did not fall to pieces.
The reason why it did not was probably that put forward by
Captain Albert Ball, V.C., in defence of his method of plunging
headlong into the middle of an enemy 'circus'. Such tactics
temporarily disorganized the enemy formation, and the pilots
dared not shoot as freely as they would normally for fear of
hitting or colliding with their own men. Be that as it may, in the opening
stage of the uproar Biggles' Pup was hit less
than a dozen times, and in no place was it seriously damaged.
By the time the Huns sorted themselves out Mahoney and the
other three Pups were on the scene. Even so, the gallant action of
the leader in taking on such overwhelming odds would not have
availed had it not been for the opportune arrival of a second
formation of Pups and a squadron of Bristols- Biggles' old
squadron, although he did not know it. That turned the tide.
The huge dog-fight lost height quickly, as such affairs nearly
always did, and was soon down to five thousand feet. It was
impossible for any pilot to know exactly what was happening;
each man picked an opponent and stuck to him as long as he
could. If he lost him he turned to find another.
That was precisely what Biggles did, and it was utterly out of the
question for him to see if he shot anyone down. If a machine at
which he was shooting fell out of the fight, someone else was
shooting at him before he could determine whether his Hun was
really hit or merely shamming.
He saw more than one machine spinning, and two or three smoke-
trails where others had gone down in flames. He also saw a
Bristol and a triplane that had collided whirling down together in
a last ghastly embrace.
At four thousand feet he pulled out, slightly dizzy, and tried to
make out what was happening. He picked out Mahoney by his
streamers, not far away, and noted that the fight seemed to be
breaking up by mutual
consent. Odd machines were still circling round each other, but
each leader was trying to rally his men.
Mahoney, in particular, was trying frantically to attract the
attention of the surviving members of his
patrol, for the fight had drifted over German territory and it was
high time to see about getting nearer the Lines.
Biggles took up position on Mahoney's flank, and presently
another Pup joined them. Of the other two there was no sign.
The Bristols were already streaming back towards home in open
formation and Mahoney followed them. They passed the charred
remains of the R.E.8 that had
been the cause of all the trouble, gaunt and black in the middle of
No Man's Land. They reached the Lines and turned to fly parallel
with them.
Their patrol was not yet finished, but all the machines had been
more or less damaged, so after waiting a few minutes to give the
other two Pups a chance of joining them if they were still in the
air, they turned towards the aerodrome. It was as well they did,
for Biggles' engine began to give trouble, although by nursing it
he managed to reach home.
They discovered that the squadron had already been informed of
the dog-fight, artillery observers along the Line reporting that
five British and seven German machines had been seen to fall.
There seemed little chance of the two missing Pups turning up.
The surviving members of the patrol hung about the tarmac for
some time, but they did not return. That evening they were
reported 'missing'.
Chapter 15
Caught Napping
'How often do you run into shows as big as that?' Biggles asked
Mahoney, at lunch.
'Oh, once in a while! Not every day, thank goodness!' replied
Mahoney. 'Why?'
'I was just wondering.' Biggles ruminated a minute or two. 'You
know, laddie, we do a lot of sneering at the Huns, and say
they've no imagination.'
'What about it?'
'Well, I'm not so sure about it, that's all.'
'What! You turning pro-Hun, or something?'
'But it seems to me they're using their brains more than we are.'
'How?'
'We just fly and fight, and that's all we think about.'
'What do You mean?'
'Well, in the first place, the Huns mostly stay over their own side
of the Lines, knowing that we'll go over to them. How often do
you see a big formation of Hun scouts over this side? Mighty
seldom. That isn't just luck. That's a clever policy laid down by
the German higher authority.
'Then there's this grouping of their hot-stuff pilots into
"circuses". And the way that bunch arrived this morning wasn't
a fluke- you can bet your life on that. It was all very neatly
arranged. Can't you see the idea? The old R.E.8. was the meat;
three Huns go down after it just when they knew we were about
due back, and
that we were certain to follow them- go down after them. It pans
out just as they expected, and off they go, taking us slap under
the big mob who were sitting up topsides waiting for us.
Although I say it as shouldn't, it was a bit of luck I happened to
look back. As it turned out, the Hun plan went off at half-cock,
but it might not have done. That's why I say these tripe-hound
merchants are flying with their heads.'
'Well, I can't stop 'em, if that's what you mean.'
'I never suggested you could, did I? But there's nothing to
prevent us exercising our grey matter a bit, is there?'
'You're right, kid,' joined in Maclaren, another flight-commander,
who had overheard the conversation. 'You're absolutely dead
right!'
'I think I am,' replied Biggles frankly. 'War-flying is too new for
strategy to be laid down in the text-books; we've got to work it
out for ourselves.'
'What's all this?' asked Major Mullen, who had entered the room
and caught the last part of the conversation.
Briefly, Maclaren gave him the gist of the conversation. The
C.O. nodded as he listened, then he looked at Biggles.
'What do you suggest?' he asked.
'Well, sir, it seems to me we might have a word with the other
scout squadrons about it, and work out a scheme. At present we
all do our shows independently, so to speak, but if we could
work out a plot together, an ambush, if you like, like the Huns did
this morning- we might give the tripe merchants over the way
something to think about. If we did happen to catch them
properly it would have the effect of making them chary about
tackling odd machines for a bit. They'd
always be worried for fear they were heading into a trap.'
`That sounds like common-sense to me,' agreed the C.0 . 'All
right, Bigglesworth, you work out the plot and submit it to me,
and I'll see what can be done about it. But we shall have to keep
it to ourselves. If Wing heard about it they'd probably knock it
on the head, on the ground that such methods were irregular,
although perhaps I shouldn't say that.'
'We all know it, sir, without you saying it, anyway!' grinned
Biggles.
After dinner he sat down with a pencil and paper to work out his
'plot', and before he went to bed he had the scheme cut and
dried. It was fairly simple, as he explained to the others in the
morning, and based upon the methodical habits of the enemy,
and the assumption that the other scout squadrons would cooperate.
'From my own personal observation,' he explained, 'the Huns -by
which I mean the big circuses, particularly the Richthofen crowd
which is stationed at Douai- do two big shows a day. Sometimes,
when things are lively, they do three. They always do a big
evening show, one that finishes about sunset, just before they
pack up for the night. Very well. It gets dark now about half past
six. That means that the Huns must leave the ground on their
last show between four and four-thirty. Now, if they have a dog-
fight they don't all go home together, but do the same as we do-
trickle home independently, in twos and threes. They did that
this morning. I saw them. Now, I reckon that the last place they'd
expect big trouble would be on the way home, near their own
aerodrome, and that's where I propose to spring the surprise
packet.
'To carry out my idea with maximum safety, it would
need three squadrons- four would be even better. This is the
way of it: at four o'clock one squadron pushes along to some
prearranged sector of the Line, and makes itself a nuisance-
shooting up the Hun trenches, or anything to make itself
conspicuous. The Hun artillery observers will see this, of course,
and are almost certain to ring up the Richthofen headquarters to
say there is a lot of aerial activity on their bit of Front. It stands
to reason that the circus will at once make for that spot; give
them their due they don't shirk a roughhouse. Right-ho. The
squadron that is kicking up the fuss keeps its eyes peeled for the
Huns. It'll pretend not to see them until they're fairly close. Then
they scatter, making towards home. The Huns are almost bound
to split up to chase them, and our fellows can please themselves
whether or not they stay and fight. But they must remember that
their job is to split up the Huns.
'As soon as this business is well under way, the other two- or
three- squadrons will take off, climb to the limit of their height,
and head over the Lines on a course that'll bring them round by
Douai. Get the idea? The Huns will think the show's over and
come drifting home in small parties, without keeping very careful
watch. We shall be there to meet them, and we shall have height
of them. Huns on the ground may see us, but they won't be able
to warn the fellows in the air. In that way, if the scheme works
out as I've planned it, we shall catch these pretty birds bending
when they're least expecting it. That's all. If the worst comes
to the worst we should be no worse off than we are on an
ordinary show, when we always seem to be outnumbered. At the
best, we shall give the Huns a
shock they'll remember for some time. What do you think about
it, sir?'
'I certainly think there is a good deal to be said for it,' agreed the
major. 'I'll speak to the other squadrons. Perhaps your old
squadron would oblige by kicking up the fuss with their
Bristols. Then, if 287, with their S.E.s, and 231, and ourselves,
get behind the Huns we shall at least be sure of meeting them
on even terms, even if they do happen to keep in one formation.
All right; leave it to me. I'll see what I can do.'
It took nearly a week of conferences to bring the scheme to a
stage where it was ready to be tried out, but at last, burning
with impatience and excitement, Biggles made his way to the
sheds with the others for the big show.
Watches had been carefully synchronized on the instrument
boards of all pilots taking part, and every possible precaution
taken to prevent a miscarriage of plans. Major Paynter, of
Biggles' old squadron, had agreed to send every Bristol he
could raise into the air, to make itself as obnoxious as possible
at a given spot, at the arranged time.
The others were to rendezvous over Maranique in 'layer'
formation (machines flying in tiers) at four-thirty- No. 266
Squadron at ten thousand feet, 231 Squadron at thirteen
thousand feet, and 287 Squadron at sixteen thousand feet.
Major Mullen was leading the whole show on a roundabout
course that would bring them behind the enemy, assuming, of
course, that the enemy circus would concentrate in the area
where the Bristols were to lure them.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Major Mullen swung round in a
wide circle that brought them actually within sight of Douai, the
headquarters of the most
famous fighting scouts in the German Imperial Air Service.
Biggles never forgot the scene. The sun was low in the west,
sinking in a crimson glow. A slight mist was rising, softening
the hard outlines of roads, woods, hedges, and fields below, as
though seen through a piece of lilac-tinted gauze. To the east,
the earth was already bathed in deep purple and indigo
shadows.
No enemy aircraft were in sight, not even on the ground, as
they turned slowly over the peaceful scene to seek the enemy in
the glowing mists of the west. They had not long to wait.
Biggles saw two Triplanes, flying close together, slowly
materialize in the mist, like goldfish swimming in a pale milky
liquid. The enemy pilots were gliding down, probably with their
eyes on the aerodrome, and it is doubtful if they even saw the
full force of British machines that had assembled to overwhelm
them. Biggles felt almost sorry for them as Major Mullen shook
his wings, as a signal, and the nine Pups roared down on the
unsuspecting Triplanes.
It was impossible to say which machine actually scored most
hits. One Triplane broke up instantly. The other jerked upwards
as if the pilot had been mortally wounded, turned slowly over
on to its back, plunged downwards in a vicious spin with its
engine full on and bored into the ground two miles below.
The Pups resumed formation and returned to their original
height and course. Another Triplane emerged from the mist, but
something evidently caught the pilot's eye-perhaps the sun
flashing on a wing-and he looked upwards. He acted with the
speed of light and flung his machine into a spin to seek safety
on the ground. The Pups did not follow, for the Triplane was
far below them and they would not risk getting too low so far
over the Line.
A few minutes later a straggling party of seven machines
appeared, followed at a distance by five more. It was obvious
from the loose formation in which they were flying that they
considered themselves quite secure so near their nest. They,
too, must have been looking at the ground, and Biggles was
amazed at the casual manner in which they continued flying
straight on with death literally raining on them from the sky.
He picked out his man and poured in a long burst of bullets
before the pilot had time to realize his peril. A cloud of smoke,
quickly followed by flame, burst from the Triplane's engine.
Biggles zoomed upwards and looked back. The seven machines
had disappeared. Two long pillars of smoke marked the going of
at least two of them.
How many had actually fallen he was unable to tell. Away to the
left the other five Triplanes were milling around in a circle, hotly
pursued by the second squadron of Pups, whilst the S.E.s were
sitting slightly above, waiting to pounce on any enemy machine
that tried to leave the combat.
It was the last real surprise of the day, not counting a lonely
straggler that they picked up near the Lines and which they had
sent down under a tornado of lead. Biggles quite definitely felt
sorry for that pilot. Two or three more machines had appeared
while the main combat was in progress, but the dog-fight had
lost height, and they saw it at once, so were able to escape by
spinning down.
The engagement really resolved itself into the sort of show that
Biggles had anticipated. The enemy had been caught napping,
and many of them had paid
the penalty. The three squadrons of British machines reached
the Line at dusk, without a single casualty and almost
unscathed. One machine only, an S.E.5 of 287 Squadron, had to
break formation near the Lines with a piece of archie shrapnel in
its engine. Except for that, the Pups and S.E.s returned home in a
formation as perfect as when they started.
Congratulations flew fast and furious when Major Mullen's
squadron landed, for it had unquestionably been one of the
most successful 'shows' ever undertaken by the squadron. A
quick comparison of notes revealed that seven Triplanes had
been destroyed for certain, either having been seen to crash or
fall in flames. How many others had been damaged, or enemy
pilots wounded, they had, of course, no means of knowing.
But the most successful part of the issue was. that not a single
British machine had been lost. Major Mullen thanked Biggles
personally and congratulated him on his initiative, in the
Squadron Office, in front of the other pilots.
'Well, I'm glad it has turned out as I hoped it would, sir. We've
given the Huns something to talk about in mess tonight. Maybe
they won't be quite so chirpy in future!' observed Biggles
modestly.
The party was about to break up when Watt Tyler, the
Recording Officer, hurried into the room waving a strip of paper
above his head; his eyes were shining as he laid it on the C.O.'s
desk.
Major Mullen read the signal, and a grim smile spread over his
face. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I am glad to be able to tell you that we
shall be able to give the Huns something else to think about
before long; the squadron is to be equipped with the long-secret
super scout at last. Our Pups are to be replaced by Sopwith Camels.'
A moment's silence greeted this important announcement.
It was broken by Biggles. 'Fine!' he said. 'Now we'll show the
Huns what's what!'
Chapter 16
The Yellow Hun
No. 266 Squadron, R.F.C., at Maranique, had been equipped
with Sopwith Camels for nearly a month, and with the improved
equipment the pilots were showing the enemy- as Biggles had
put it- what was what. Except for two pilots who had been killed
whilst learning to fly the very tricky Camels, things had gone
along quite smoothly, and Biggles had long ago settled down as
a regular member of the squadron. Indeed, he was beginning to
regard himself as something of a veteran.
It was a warm spring afternoon, and as he sat sunning himself on
the veranda after an uneventful morning patrol he felt on good
terms with himself and the world in general. 'Where's the Old
Man?' he suddenly asked Mahoney, who had just returned from
the sheds, where he had been supervising the timing of his guns.
'Dunno,' was the reply. 'I think he's gone off to Amiens, or
somewhere, for a conference. Oh, here he comes now. He looks
pretty grim. I'll bet something's in the wind!'
The C.O. joined them on the veranda. He looked at Biggles as if
he were about to speak, but he changed his mind and looked
through the open window into the ante-room, where several other
officers were sitting. He called to them to come outside.
I've a bit of news-or perhaps 1 should say a story',
he began, when everyone had assembled. 'It will be of particular
interest to you, Bigglesworth.'
Biggles stared. 'To me, sir?' he cried in surprise.
'Yes. You haven't been over to your old squadron lately, have
you?'
Biggles shook his head. 'No, sir, I haven't!' he said wonderingly.
'Then you haven't heard about Way?'
'Mark Way!' Biggles felt his face going white. Mark had been
his gunner and great friend when they were together in 169
Squadron. 'Why, he isn't-?' He could not bring himself to say
the fatal word.
'No, he isn't dead, but he'll never fly again,' said the C.O. quitely.
Biggles' lips turned dry. 'But how-what?' he stammered.
'I've just seen him,' went on the C.O. 'I had to attend a
conference in Amiens, and I ran into Major Paynter, who was
going to the hospital to see Way. He told me about it. Way is
now en route for England., He'll never come back.'
'But I don't understand!' exclaimed Biggles. 'He was due to go
home when I came here; he was going to get his pilot's wings.
In fact I thought he'd actually gone.'
'That's right,'said the C.O. 'He packed up his kit and set off, but
apparently he was kept hanging about the port of embarkation
for some time. Then the Huns made their big show, and he with
everyone else who was waiting to go home was recalled to his
squadron.'
'But why didn't he let me know?' cried Biggles.
'He hadn't time. He arrived back just in time to be sent on a
show with Captain Mapleton. They didn't return, and were
posted missing the same day. Way arrived back yesterday,
having crawled into our front line trench, minus his right hand
and an eye.'
'Good heavens!'
'He asked to be remembered to you, and said he would write to
you as soon as he was able, from home.'
'But what happened, sir?'
'I'm coming to that. In point of fact, what I'm about to say was
intended for you alone- his last message, but I think it is a matter
that concerns everyone, so I shall make no secret of it.' The
C.O.'s face hardened. This is what he told me,' he continued.
'As I said, he was flying with Mapleton-'
'Where's Mapleton now?' broke in Biggles.
'Mapleton was killed, But let me continue.'
Biggles gripped the rail of the veranda, but said nothing.
'He was, as I say, acting as gunner for Mapleton,' went on the C.O.
'They were attacked by a big bunch of enemy machines, near
Lille. By a bit of bad luck they got their engine shot up in the
early stages of the fight, and had to go down, and the Hun who
had hit them followed them down, shooting at them all the time.
Their prop had stopped, and they waved to him to show that
they were going to land, but he continued shooting at them
while they were, so to speak helpless.'
A stir ran through the listeners.
'It was at this juncture that Way was struck in the eye by a
piece of glass; but he didn't lose consciousness. Mapleton
made a perfect landing in spite of the damage the machine had
suffered and it looked as if they would both escape with their
lives- as indeed they should have done. But the Hun thought
differently. Thank Heaven they are not all like him. He
deliberately shot them up after they had landed- emptied his
guns at them.'
'The unspeakable hog!' Biggles ground the words out through
clenched teeth.
'Mapleton fell dead with a bullet through his head. Way's wrist
was splintered by an explosive bullet, and his hand was
subsequently amputated in a German field hospital. Three days
ago, on the eve of being transferred to a prison camp, he
escaped, and managed to work his way through the Lines. He
arrived in a state of collapse, and Major Paynter thinks that it
was only the burning desire to report the flagrant breach of the
accepted rules of air fighting, and the passion for revenge,
which he knew would follow, that kept him on his feet. The Hun
seems to have been a Hun in every sense of the word; he
actually went and gloated over Way in hospital.'
'Mark didn't learn his name, by any chance?' muttered Biggles
harshly.
'Yes. It's Von Kraudil, of Jagdstaffel Seventeen.'
'What colour was his kite?' asked Biggles, his hands twitching
curiously.
'Yes, that's more important, for by this we shall be able to
recognize him.' The C.O. spoke softly, but very distinctly. 'He
flies a sulphur-yellow Albatros with a black nose, and a black
diamond painted on each side of the fuselage.'
'I've seen that skunk!' snarled McLaren, starting up. 'Yellow is a
good colour for him. I'll-'
The CO. held up his hands as a babble of voices broke out.
'Yes, I know,' he said quickly. 'Most of us have seen this
machine; it's been working on this part of the Front for some
time, so I hope it is still about.'
'I'll nail his yellow hide up in the ante-room!' declared Mahoney.
'Such methods would have been in order a few hundred years
ago, but we can hardly do that sort of thing
to-day,' smiled the C.O. 'All the same, a piece of yellow fuselage
might look well-'
'Leave that to me, sir!' interrupted Biggles. 'Mark Way was my-'
'Not likely! No fear!' a chorus of protests from the other pilots
overwhelmed him, and the C.O. was again compelled to call for
silence. 'It's up to everyone to get him,' he went on. 'And the
officer who gets him may have a week's leave!'
'I'll get that leave-to go and see Mark!' declared Biggles.
'All right, gentlemen, that's all,' concluded the C.O.
'He says that's all!' muttered Biggles to Mahoney. 'It,isn't, not
by a long shot!'
Under the influence of his cold fury his first idea was to rush off
into the air and stay there until he had found the yellow Hun.
Instead, he controlled himself, and made his way to his room to
think the matter over. He was in a curious state of nerves, for
the news had stirred him as nothing had ever done before. He
was depressed by the tragic end of the man whom he still
regarded as he best friend, and with whom he had had so many
thrilling adventures. And tears actually came into his eyes when
he thought of his old flight-commander, Mapleton, whom they
all called Mabs, one of the most brilliant and fearless fighters in
France.
He was suffering from a mild form of shock, although he did not
know it, and behind it all was the burning desire for vengeance.
That by his cold-blooded action the yellow Hun had signed his
own death warrant Biggles did not doubt, for not a single
member of either his old squadron or his present one would rest
until Mabs had been avenged. But Biggles wanted to shoot the
man down himself. He wanted to see his tracer
bullets boring into that yellow cockpit. The mere fact that the
Hun had fallen under the guns of someone else would not give
him the same satisfaction. In fact, as he pondered the matter, he
began to feel afraid that someone else might shoot the Hun
down before he could come to grips with him.
The matter was chiefly his concern, after all, he reasoned. Mark
had been his friend, and Mabs his flight-commander. No doubt
machines were already scouring the sky for the murderer- for
that was almost what the action of shooting at a machine on the
ground amounted to.
'Well,' he muttered at last, 'if I'm going to get this hound I'd
better see about it!'
He rose, washed, picked up his flying kit, and made his way to
the sheds. 'Where's everybody?' he asked Smyth, the flight-
sergeant.
'In the air, sir.'
'Ah, I might have known it,' breathed Biggles. He was so
accustomed to the sound of aero engines that he had hardly
noticed the others taking off. But he knew only too well why
the aerodrome was deserted, and he hastened to his own
machine.
Within five minutes he was in his Camel, heading for the Lines.
He hardly expected to find Von Kraudil cruising about the sky
alone; that would be asking too much. He would certainly be
flying with a formation of single-seaters. If that were so, he,
Biggles, would stand a better chance of finding his man by
flying alone, as the Huns would certainly attack the lone British
machine if they saw him, whereas they might refuse to engage
the others if they were flying together.
In any case, a wide area would have to be combed, for the
enemy machines operated far to the east and
west of their base. So in order to expedite matters, Biggles
deliberately asked for trouble by thrusting deep into the enemy
country. Ground observers could hardly fail to see him, and
would, he hoped, report his presence to the nearest squadrons,
in accordance with their usual practice.
Far and wide he searched, but curiously enough the sky
appeared to be deserted. Once he saw a formation of three
Camels, and a little later three more, but he did not join them.
Never had he seen the sky so empty.
At the end of two hours he was forced to return to the
aerodrome without having seen an enemy aircraft of any sort,
and consequently without firing a shot. On the ground he
learned that the other machines had already returned, refuelled,
and taken off again.
Then he had a stroke of luck-or so he regarded it. His tanks had
been filled, and he was about to take off again, when Watt Tyler
rushed out of the Squadron Office and hailed him. 'You're
looking for that yellow devil, I suppose?' he inquired shortly.
'Who else do you suppose I'd be looking for?' replied Biggles
coldly.
'All right, keep your hair on! I was only going to tell you that
forward gunner observers have just reported that a large enemy
formation has just crossed our Lines in pursuit of two Camels.'
'Where?'
'Up by Passchendaele.'
Biggles did not stop to thank Watt for the information. He
thrust the throttle open, and as his wheels left the ground he
soared upwards in a steep climbing turn in the direction of the
well-known town.
He saw the dog-fight afar off. At least, he saw the archie bursts
that clustered thickly about the isolated
machines, and he roared towards the spot on full throttle,
peering ahead round his windscreen to try to identify the
combatants. Presently he was able to make out what had
happened, for the two Camels that had been pursued had
turned, and were now hard at it, assisted by half a dozen
Bristols. There seemed to be about twelve or fourteen Huns, all
Albatroses. He guessed that they had chased the Camels over
the Line, and, on turning, found their retreat cut off by the
Bristols. That, in fact, was exactly what had happened.
The enemy machines were still too far away for their colours to
be distinguished, but as he drew nearer he saw one, dark blue in
colour, break out of the fight some distance below him and
streak for the Line.
'Not so fast!' growled Biggles, as he altered his course slightly
and tore down after the escaping Hun. The enemy pilot, who
did not even see him, was leaning out of his cockpit on the
opposite side of the fuselage, looking back at the dogfight as if
he expected the other machines to follow, and wondered why
they did not. For a few seconds he omitted to watch the sky
around him and paid the penalty for that neglect- as so many
pilots did, sooner or later.
Biggles fired exactly five rounds at point-blank range, and the
Hun's petrol tank burst into flames. Biggles zoomed clear,
amazed at the effectiveness of his fire, for hitherto he had fired
many rounds before such a thing had happened. His first shot
must have gone straight through the tank. He glanced down, to
see the Hun still falling, the doomed pilot leaning back in his
cockpit with his arms over his face. It crashed in a sheet of
flame near a British rest camp, and Biggles turned again to the
dog-fight, which had now become more scattered over a fairly
wide area.
Several Huns had broken out of the fight and were racing
towards the Lines. But, as far as Biggles could see, there was
not a yellow one amongst them, although he wasted some
precious time chasing first one and then another in the hope of
recognizing the particular one he sought. He turned back
towards the spot where several machines were still circling, and
as he drew nearer he saw something that would normally have
given him satisfaction, but on this occasion brought a quick
frown to his forehead. With a quick movement of his left hand
he pushed up his goggles to make quite certain that he was not
mistaken. But there was no mistake about it.
A bright yellow Hun had broken clear of the fight, but was
being furiously attacked by a Camel- which Biggles instantly
recognized by its markings as the one belonging to Mahoney.
He had never seen a Camel handled like it before, and he sensed
the hatred that possessed the pilot and inspired such brilliant
flying.
The Hun hadn't a ghost of a chance; it was outmanoeuvred at
every turn. Once, as if to make suspicion a certainty, it turned
broadside on towards Biggles, who saw a large black diamond
painted on its yellow wooden side. That the Hun would fall was
certain. It was only a matter of time, for the Camel was glued to
its tail, guns spouting tracer bullets in long, vicious bursts. The
pilot of the yellow machine seemed to be making no effort to
retaliate but concentrated his efforts in attempting to escape,
twisting and turning like a fish with an otter behind it.
Biggles had no excuse for butting in, and he knew it. Mahoney
was quite capable of handling the afrair himself, and his
presence might do more harm than good. If he got in the way of
the whirling machines,
the two Camel pilots would certainly have to watch each other
to avoid collision, and in the confusion the Hun might escape.
That was a contingency Biggles dared not risk, much as he
would have liked to take a hand. So he kept clear, and, circling,
watched the end of a very one-sided duel. Suddenly in a last
frantic effort to escape, the Hun spun, came out, and spun
again; but the Camel had spun down behind it and was ready to
administer the knock-out. Mahoney let drive again, but the Hun
did not wait for any more. Once again he spun, only to pull out
at the last minute, then drop in a steep sideslip to a rather bad
landing in a handy field.
Biggles, who had followed the fight down, beat the side of his
cockpit with his clenched fist in impotent rage. 'The yellow
skunk!' he grated. 'He's got away with it. Never mind, this is
where Mahoney treats him to a spot of his own medicine.'
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.
'I got him!' roared Mahoney as they ran.
'All 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
blue eyed -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, nein!' was the reply.
Biggles looked at Mahoney, and Mahoney looked at Biggles.
'I 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?'
'I 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.'
'Ask 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. 'I 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.'
'Asleep, 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. 'I 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.'
a ride to remember
SECOND-LIEUT. BIGGLESWORTH, of No. 266 Squadron,
R.F.C., stationed at Maranique, France, settled himself
in a deck-chair, cocked his feet up on the balustrade
that ran round the verandah in front of the officers'
mess, yawned lazily in the summer sunshine, and
then looked up at the group of pilots who had collected
there while awaiting the summons of the luncheon
gong.
"What do you think about it, Biggles?" asked
Mahoney, his flight-commander, fishing a pip from his
glass of lemon crush.
"About what?"
"I say that the fellow who goes about this war
casually volunteering for this and that has about as
much chance of seeing the dawn of peace as a snowball
has of surviving midsummer in the Sahara. Sooner or
later he gets it-he's bound to. I could give you scores
of instances. Take Leslie Binton for example--"
"I never heard anyone talk as much drivel as you,"
interrupted Biggles wearily. "You sit here day after
day laying down the law about how to avoid getting
pushed out of this world, but do you practise what you
preach? Not on your life! If the Old Man came along
here now and said he wanted some poor prune to fly
upside down at fifty feet over the Boche lines, you'd be
the first to reach for your flying togs. I'm not saying
you're wrong about this volunteer stuff. Personally, I
think you're right, because it stands to reason that the
pitcher that goest oftenest to the well gets a better
chance of being busted than the one that sits on the
shelf."
"Not necessarily," argued Wells, a Canadian pilot
with a good deal of experience who had recently joined
the squadron. "It's just as likely to get knocked off the
shelf on to the floor. It's no more true than the proverb
about an empty pitcher making the most noise."
"Are you telling me I'm an empty pitcher?" inquired Biggles coldly.
"Wait a minute-let me finish. What I was going to
say was, you're as bad as Mahoney. You say the volunteer act doesn't pay-"
"It doesn't!"
"Then why do you take a pace forward every time a
sticky job comes along?"
"To save poor hoots like you from getting their pants
scorched."
"Rot! Well, you go ahead, but anyone in his right
mind can get all the trouble he wants out here in France
without looking for it. All the same, I aim to outlive
you guys by at least three weeks."
There was a sudden stir, and a respectful silence fell
as Major Mullen, the C.O., and Colonel Raymond, of
Wing Headquarters, walked up the short fight of stairs
from the Squadron Office.
Biggles took one glance at the major's face, caught
Mahoney's eye and winked.
The C.O. was too young to dissemble and he showed
his anxiety plainly when the squadron was selected for
a particularly dangerous task. He looked around the
assembled officers. "All right, gentlemen, sit down," he
said quietly. "Is everybody here, Mahoney?" he went
on, addressing the senior flight-commander.
"Yes, I think so, sir."
"Good. I won't waste time beating about the bush,
then. I want an officer to-"
Biggles and Mahoney sprang up together. Wells
took a pace forward and several other officers edged
nearer the C.O.
Major Mullen smiled. "No, I shan't want you,
Bigglesworth-or you, Mahoney. Wells, you've had a
good deal of experience at reconnaissance, haven't
you?"
"Yes, sir," replied Wells eagerly, turning to frown at
Biggles, who had tittered audibly.
"Good. Have a word with Colonel Raymond, will
you? He will explain what he wants."
"But, sir-" began Biggles.
The C.O. silenced him with a gesture. "I'm not in
the least anxious to lose my best pilots," he said softly,
as Wells and the Colonel disappeared into the ante-
room, and the other officers filed into the dining-room
as the gong sounded.
"This must be something extra sticky," growled
Biggles to Mahoney as they followed. "It would have
been a lot more sensible to hand the job to someone-"
"I never heard anyone talk as much drivel as you
do," mimicked Mahoney, and side-stepped quickly to
avoid the jab that Biggles aimed at him.
"You go and get on with your O.P." (Offensive
Patrol), Biggles told him sourly.
"Aren't you flying this afternoon?"
"No, my kite's flying a bit left-wing low, but I may
test her if she's finished in time."
After lunch, Biggles made his way slowly to the
sheds, where he found the riggers putting the last
touches to his machine. "All right, Flight?" he asked
Smyth, his flight-sergeant.
"She's O.K. now, sir, I think," replied the N.C.O.
briskly.
"Fine! Start her up. I'll test her."
Ten minutes later, at two thousand feet above
the aerodrome, he concluded his test with a couple of
flick loops, and, satisfied that the machine was now
rigged as he liked it, he eyed the eastern sky meditatively.
"There's nothing to do on the floor, so I might as well
take a prowl round," he decided, and turned his nose in
the direction of the Lines.
Mahoney, sitting at the head of his Flight in front
of the hangars, with his engine ticking over in readiness
for the afternoon patrol, watched him go with a curious
expression that was half frown and half smile.
"There he goes," he mused. "He can't keep out of it.
One day, I suppose-"
Not waiting to complete his remark he shoved the
throttle open and sped across the short turf.
For an hour or more Biggles soared in the blue sky
searching for hostile aircraft, or anything to distract
him from the irritating attentions of archie (anti-aircraft gunfire),
but in vain. The sky seemed deserted,
and he was about to turn back towards the Lines when
a movement far below and many miles inside enemy
country caught his eye.
It was only a tiny flash, and would have passed unnoticed
by anyone except an experienced pilot. But he
knew that it was the reflection of the sun's rays on the
planes of a banking machine. Instinctively he turned
towards it, peering down through the swirling arc of his
propeller and pushing up his goggles to see more
clearly.
Presently he made out a whirling group of highly
coloured machines, and his lips set in a straight line as
he observed the reason for their aerobatics. A solitary
British machine, a Camel, with the same markings as
his own, was fighting a lone battle against a staffel of
Albatros scouts that swarmed around it like flies round
a honey-pot. The pilot was putting up a brilliant fight,
twisting and half-rolling as he fought his way inch by
inch towards the Lines; but he was losing height
rapidly.
Biggles half closed his eyes, and his top lip curled
back from his teeth as he stood his machine on its nose
and plunged down like a bolt from the blue, wires and
struts screaming protest.
His speed outdistanced his altimeter, and it was still
on the four thousand feet mark when he was down
to two thousand, with the tragedy written plain to see.
It was Wells being forced down by ten or a dozen
Huns.
A pilot of less courage might well have considered
landing in the face of such frightful odds and thus
escape the fate that must, if he persisted, sooner or later
overtake him; but apparently no such thought entered
Wells' head.
Biggles was still a thousand feet away when the end
came. A stream of flame leapt from the side of the
Camel and a cloud of black smoke swirled aft. The
pilot, instead of sideslipping into the ground, soared
upwards like a rocketing pheasant, in a last wild effort to
take his destroyer with him; but the wily Hun pilot saw
him coming and swerved in the nick of time.
A sheet of flame leapt back over the cockpit of the
stricken Camel as it stalled at the top of its zoom. The
pilot, with an arm over his face, climbed out on the
fuselage, stood poised for an instant, then jumped clear
into space.
The German pilot, fascinated by the slowly
somersaulting leather-jacketed figure, raised his hand in
salute, and at that moment Biggles' tracer bullets bored
a group of holes between his shoulders. The German,
without knowing what had hit him, lurched forward
across his control-stick and the Albatros buried itself
deep in the ground not a hundred feet from the
smoking remains of its victim.
Biggles, pale as death and fighting mad, swung round
just as the leader of the Hun staffel took him in his
sights, far outside effective range, and fired a short
burst. It was a thousand-to-one chance, but it came off.
A single bullet struck Biggles' machine, but it struck
one of the few vulnerable spots-the propeller. There
was a vibrating, bellowing roar as the engine,
now unbalanced and freed from the brake on its progress,
raced, and nearly tore itself from the engine bearers.
Biggles, not knowing for a moment what had happened,
was nearly flung out by the vibration, but as he
throttled back and saw the jagged ends of the wooden
blades, he snarled savagely and looked below. There
was no help for it; an aeroplane cannot remain in the
air without a propeller, so down he had to go.
Immediately he looked below he knew that a crash
was inevitable, for his height was less than
five hundred feet and the combat had taken him over a far-
reaching forest. He switched off automatically, to prevent
the risk of fire, and flattened out a few feet above
the treetops for a "pancake" landing. At the last
instant, as the machine wobbled unsteadily before
dropping bodily into the trees, he raised his knees to his
chin and buried his face in his arms.
There was a splintering, tearing crash of woodwork
and fabric, a jar that shook every tooth in his head, and
then a silence broken only by the receding drone of
Mercedes engines.
Slowly he unfolded himself and looked around. The
machine, as he had guessed, was caught up in the
topmost branches of a large tree, and it swayed unsteadily
as he moved.
Remembering that more than one pilot who had
crashed in similar circumstances had been killed by
falling from the tree and breaking his neck, he
unfastened his safety belt and crept cautiously to the
nearest fork, from where he made his way, inch by inch,
to the trunk. After that it was fairly plain sailing,
although he had to jump the last ten or twelve feet to the
ground.
In the silent aisles of the forest he paused to listen,
for he knew that the Boche pilots would quickly direct
a ground force to the spot; but he could hear nothing.
A steady rain of petrol was dripping from the tree,
and he set about his last duty. He divested himself of
his flying coat which would now only be an encumbrance,
and after removing the maps from the pocket
thrust it far under a bush. Then he threw the maps
under the dripping petrol and flung a lighted match
after them.
There was a loud whoosh as the petrol-laden air took
fire. A tongue of flame shot upward to the suspended
Camel which instantly became a blazing inferno. He
sighed regretfully, and then set off at a steady jog-trot
through the trees in the direction of the Lines.
A few minutes later the sound of voices ahead
brought him up with a jerk, and he just had time to
fling himself under a convenient clump of holly bushes
when a line of grey-clad troops in coal-scuttle helmets,
with an officer at their head, passed him at the double,
going in the direction of the source of the smoke that
drifted overhead.
Satisfied they were out of earshot he proceeded on his
way, but with more care. Again he stopped as a clearing
came into view. A low buzz of conversation reached
him. He began to make a detour round the spot, but
his curiosity got the better of him, and, risking a peep
through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, he
saw a curious sight.
An area of about two acres had been cleared, and
in the middle of it four enormous concrete beds had
been laid down in a rough line. Three appeared to be
actually complete, and a gang of men were engaged in
smoothing the surface of the fourth.
He did not stop to wonder at their purpose, but they
reminded him vaguely of some big gun emplacements
that he had once seen far over the British side of the
Lines. Dodging from tree to tree, sometimes dropping
to all fours to cross an open place, he pressed forward,
anxious to get as near to the Lines as possible before
nightfall.
Just what he hoped to do when he reached them he
did not know, but it was not within his nature to submit
calmly to capture while a chance of escape remained.
He would consider the question of working his way
through the Lines when he reached them.
The sun was already low when the German balloon
line came into view. Far beyond it he could see the
British balloons hanging motionless in the glowing
western sky. Presently, he knew, they would be hauled
down for the night; in fact, the nearest German
balloon was already being dragged down by its powerful
winch.
He wondered why it was being taken in so early,
until the low, unmistakable hum of a Bentley engine
reached his ears. Then he saw it, a solitary Camel,
streaking in his direction. It was flying low, the British
pilot altering his course from time to time, almost as if
he was picking his way through the dark smudges of
smoke that blossomed out around him as the German
archie gunners did their best to end the career of the
impudent Britisher.
Biggles, watching it as it passed overhead, recognised
Mahoney's streamers, and guessed the reason for its
mission. It was looking for him-for the crash that
would tell his own story-and he smiled grimly as the
Camel circled once over the scene that appeared to tell
the story of the tragedy only too plainly. Then it
turned back towards the Lines and was soon lost in the
distance.
"They'll be drinking a final cup to the memory of
poor old Wells and myself presently!" he mused.
He hesitated on the edge of a narrow lane that
crossed his path. He traversed it swiftly after a quick
glance to left and right, and taking cover by the side of
a thick hedge, held on his way. He came upon the
Boche balloon party quite suddenly, and crept into a
coppice that bordered the lair of the silken monster in
order to get a closer view of it. Balloons were common
enough in the air, but few pilots were given an
opportunity of examining one on the ground.
It was still poised a few feet above the field, with the
basket actually touching the turf, and was being held
down by the men of the balloon section who were
rather anxiously watching two observers, easily
recognised by their heavy flying kit, now talking to the
officer in charge a short distance away.
It was easy to guess what had happened. The balloon
had been hauled down when Mahoney's Camel came
into sight, and a consultation was now being held as to
whether or not it was worth while sending it up again.
The observers were evidently in favour of remaining
on the ground, for they pointed repeatedly to the
direction in which the Camel had disappeared and
then towards the kite-balloon.
The balloon had been released from its cable and
was straining in the freshening breeze, which, by an
unusual chance, was blowing towards the British
Lines.
As Biggles realised this, the germ of an idea crept
into his mind, but it was so fantastic that he dismissed
it. Yet in spite of his efforts, the thought persisted. If
the balloon were free-as it would be if the crew
released their hold on it-it would inevitably be blown
over the British Lines, and, naturally, anyone in the
basket would go with it.
He did not stop to ponder what would happen when
it got there; sufficient for him in his present
predicament to know that if in some way he could get into the
basket and compel the crew to release their hold on the
balloon, he would soon be over friendly country,
instead of remaining in Germany with the prospect of
staying there for the duration of the War.
Reluctantly he was compelled to dismiss the idea, for
to attack the whole balloon section single-handed and
unarmed was a proposition that could not be considered
seriously. So from his place of concealment he watched
the scene for a few minutes despondently; and he was
about to turn away to resume his march when a new
factor introduced itself and made him catch his breath
in excitement.
The first indication of it was the distant but rapidly
approaching roar of an aero engine. The balloon crew
heard it, too, and evidently guessed, as well as Biggles,
just what it portended, for there was a general stir as
the men craned their necks to see the approaching
machine and tried to drag their charge towards the
coppice.
The stir became more pronounced as Mahoney's
Camel leapt into view over the trees and swooped down
upon the balloon in its lair.
"He's peeved because he thinks I've gone West, so
he's ready to shoot up anyone and anything," was the
thought that flashed into Biggles' brain.
The chatter of the twin Vickers guns broke into his
thoughts, and he watched the scene spellbound, for the
stir now became panic. Two or three of the crew had
fallen under the hail of lead, while several more were in
open flight, leaving the balloon in the grip of the few
more courageous ones, who shouted for help as they
struggled to keep the now swaying gasbag on the
ground.
Biggles could see what was about to happen, and was
on his feet actually before the plan had been born in his
brain, sprinting like a deer across the open towards his
only hope of salvation. Out of the corner of his eye he
saw Mahoney's Camel twisting and turning as it ran
for the Lines through a blaze of archie.
He heard a shout behind him, but he did not stop.
As a drowning man clutches at a straw in the last
frenzy of despair so he hurled himself at the basket
of the balloon. As in a dream, he heard more shouts
and running footsteps. Luckily, the nearest man
had his back towards him, and Biggles flung him
aside with a mighty thrust. He grabbed the rim of
the basket, and lifting his feet, kicked the second man
aside.
Just what happened after that would not be easy to
describe. It was all confused. He saw the two
remaining members of the crew start back, the balloon
forgotten in their astonishment and fright, and the
next moment he was jerked upwards with such force
that he lost his grip with his right hand, and felt sure
his left arm would be torn from its socket. But with the
fear of death in his heart he clung on.
Somehow his right hand joined the left on the
rim of the basket. His feet beat a wild tattoo on the
wickerwork sides as they sought to find a foothold
to take his weight, in order to relieve the strain on
his arms and enable him to climb up to temporary
safety.
His muscles grew numb with the strain, and just as
he felt his strength leaving him his right knee struck
something soft. In an instant his leg had curled round
the object, and he made a last supreme effort. Inch by
inch he lifted his body, which seemed to weigh a ton,
until his chin was level with the rim of the basket; his
foot swung up over the edge. For two seconds he lay
balanced, then fell inwards gasping for breath and
clutching at his hammering heart.
For perhaps a minute he could only lie and pant,
perspiration pouring down his face, for the strain had
been terrific. Then sheer will-power conquered, and,
hauling himself up to the edge of the basket, he looked
over the side, only to receive another shock that left
him staring helplessly.
Just what he had expected to see he had not stopped to
consider, but he certainly imagined that he would still
be within reasonable distance of the ground. That the
balloon, freed from its anchor, could shoot up to seven
or eight thousand feet in two or three minutes was outside
his knowledge of aeronautics. Yet such was the case.
So far below that he could no longer see the spot
where he had left the ground, lay the earth, a vast
indigo basin that merged into blue and purple shadows
at the distant horizon. The deep rumble of the guns
along the Line, like a peal of distant thunder, was the
only sound that reached his ears. He was oppressed by
a curious sense of loneliness, for there was nothing he
could do except watch his slow progress towards the
shell-torn strip of No Man's Land between the opposing
front-line trenches, now visible like a long, ugly scar
across the western landscape; so he fell to examining
his unusual aircraft.
Above loomed the gigantic body of the gasbag;
around him hung a maze of ropes and lines. A small
drawing board, with a map pinned on it, was fastened
at an inclined angle to one side of the basket, and near
it, hanging half over the rim, just as it had been
casually thrown by its last wearer, was the complicated
webbing harness of a parachute.
He followed the life line and saw that it was
connected to a bulging case outside the basket, the same
protuberance which had assisted him to climb up when
he had been dangling in space.
The parachute interested him, for it represented a
means of getting back to earth if all else failed. But he
regarded the apparatus with grim suspicion. He had,
of course, seen the device employed many times, both
on the British and German side of the Lines, but it had
been from a distance, and as a mildly interested spectator.
It had never occurred to him that he might one
day be called upon to use one.
He fitted the harness over his shoulders, and with
some difficulty adjusted the thigh straps. Then he
looked over the side again, and for the first time in his
life really appreciated the effort of will required to jump
into space from such a ghastly height.
A terrific explosion somewhere near at hand brought
his heart into his mouth, and he stared upwards under
the impression that the balloon had burst.
To his infinite relief he saw that it was still intact, but a smudge
of black smoke was drifting slowly past it.
He recognised his old enemy, archie, and wondered why the
burst made so much noise-until he remembered that
he was accustomed to hearing it above the roar of an
aero engine. In the deathly silence the sound was infinitely more disturbing.
Another shell, quickly followed by another, came up,
and burst with explosions that made the basket quiver.
The smoke being black indicated that the shells were
being fired by German gunners, so he assumed that
they had been made aware of what had occurred and
were endeavouring to prevent him from reaching the
British Lines.
At that moment a white archie burst flamed amongst
the black ones, and he eyed it mournfully, realising that
the British gunners had spotted the balloon as a German,
and were making good practice on it. To be
archied by the gunners of both sides was something
that he had never supposed possible.
Slowly, but with- horrible certainty, the shells crept
nearer as the gunners corrected their aim, and more
than once the shrill whe-e-e-e of flying shrapnel made
him duck.
"This is no blinking joke," he muttered savagely. "I
shall soon have to be doing something. But what?"
He had a confused recollection that a balloon had
some sort of device which allowed the gas to escape,
with the result that it sank slowly earthward.
But desperate though the circumstances were, he dared not pull
any of the trailing cords, for he knew that there was yet
another which ripped a panel out of the top, or side, of
the fabric, and allowed the whole structure to fall like a
stone.
He eyed the dark bulk above him sombrely.
Somehow or other he must allow the gas to escape in order
to lose altitude, and for a wild moment he thought of
trying to climb up the guy ropes to the fabric and then
cutting a hole in it with his penknife; but he shrank
from the ordeal.
An extra close burst of archie made him stagger, and
in something like panic he grabbed one of the ropes
and pulled it gingerly. Nothing happened. He pulled
harder, but still nothing happened.
"Why the dickens don't they fix control-sticks to
these kites?" he snarled, and was about to give the rope
a harder pull when the roar of an aero engine
accompanied by the staccato chatter of a machine-gun, struck
his ears.
"It looks as if it's me against the rest of the world!"
he thought bitterly, as a Camel swept into view.
It banked steeply, a perfect evolution that in other
circumstances would have been a joy to behold, and
then tore back at him, guns spurting orange flame that
glowed luridly in the half-light. It disappeared from
view behind the bulk of the gasbag, and with a sinking
feeling in his heart he knew that the end of his journey
was at hand.
The chatter of the guns made him wince, and,
leaning out of the basket, he saw a tiny tongue of flame
lick up the side of the bellying fabric.
Now there are moments in dire peril when fear ceases
to exist and one acts with deliberation that is the product of final despair.
For Biggles this was one of them.
All was lost, so nothing mattered.
"Well, here goes; I'm not going to be fried alive!"
he said recklessly, and climbing up on to the edge of
the basket, he dived outwards.
As he somersaulted slowly through space the scene
around him seemed to take on the curious aspect of a
slow motion film. He saw the balloon, far above,
enveloped in a sheet of flame. The Camel was still
banking, but so slowly, it seemed, that the thought
flashed through his mind that it would stall and fall
into flames.
Then the blazing mass above was blotted out by a
curious grey cloud that seemed to mushroom out above
him. He was conscious of a sudden jerk; the sensation
of falling ceased, and he felt that he was floating in
space on an invisible cushion of incredible softness.
"The parachute!" he gasped, suddenly understanding. "It's opened!"
Then the Camel swept into sight again from beyond
the parachute and dived towards him, the pilot waving
a cheerful greeting.
Biggles stared at the markings on the fuselage. There
was no mistaking them. It was Mahoney's machine.
He smiled as the humour of the situation struck him;
and placing his thumb to his nose, he extended his
fingers in the time-honoured manner.
Mahoney, who at that moment was turning away,
changed his mind and flew closer, as if to confirm the
incredible spectacle. But the swiftly-falling figure raced
him to earth before he could come up with it again.
Biggles saw with a shock that he was now very close
to the ground, and even while he was thinking of the
best way to fall he struck it. The wind was knocked
out of him, but he was past caring about such trifles.
Picking himself up quickly, he saw with relief that the
fabric had become entangled in some bushes, which
arrested its progress and thus prevented him from
being dragged.
It was nearly dark, and strangely quiet, so he assumed
that he must have fallen some distance behind the
Lines, a state of affairs he was quickly able to confirm
from a pedestrian whom he accosted on a road which
he came upon after crossing two or three fields.
An hour later, the car he had hired at the nearest
village pulled up at Maranique, and, after paying the
driver, he walked briskly towards the mess. Noticing
that a light was still shining in the Squadron Office, he
glanced through the window as he passed, and saw
Colonel Raymond in earnest consultation with the C.O. .
He knocked on the door, and smiled wanly when he
saw the amazed expressions on the faces of the two
senior officers.
"Good gracious, Bigglesworth!" stammered Major
Mullen. "We thought-Mahoney said---"
"Yes, I know, sir," broke in Biggles. "I went down
over the other side, but I've managed to get back. I'm
sorry to say that poor Wells has gone West, though."
"What happened?" asked the C.O.
Briefly, Biggles gave him an account of his adventures.
When he mentioned, quite casually, the concrete
emplacements he had seen in the forest,
Colonel Raymond sprang to his feet with a sharp cry.
"You saw them?" he ejaculated.
"Why, yes sir," replied Biggles. "Is there anything
remarkable about them?"
"Remarkable! It's the most amazing coincidence I
ever heard of in my life! " And then, noting the
puzzled look on the faces of the others: "You see," he
explained, "we heard that the Boche were bringing up
some new long range guns, and to try to locate them
was the mission poor Wells undertook this afternoon!
You've found them by sheer accident! If you will
mark them down on the map I'll get back to headquarters right away!"
the camera
BIGGLES LANDED, taxied in, and sat for a moment or two
on the "hump" of his Camel in front of the hangars.
Then he yawned, switched off, and climbed stiffly to the
ground.
"Is she flying all right, sir?" asked Smyth, his flight-
sergeant, running up.
"She's inclined to be a bit heavy on right rudder-
nothing very much, but you might have a look at her."
"Very good, sir," replied the N.C.O., feeling the
slack flying wires disapprovingly. "She wasn't like this
when you took off, sir."
"Of course she wasn't! You don't suppose I've just
been footling about between here and the Lines, do
you?"
"No, sir: but you must have chucked her about a bit
to get her into this state."
Biggles yawned again, for he had been flying very
high and was tired; but he did not think it worth while
to describe a little affair he had had with a German
Rumpler near Lille. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted,
and strolled slowly towards the officers' mess.
A hum of conversation came from the ante-room as
he opened the door.
"What's all the noise about?" he asked as he sank
down into a chair.
"Mac was just talking about narrow escapes," replied
Mahoney.
"Narrow escapes? What are they?" asked Biggles
curiously.
"Why, don't you have any?" inquired Algy Lacey,
who had joined the squadron not long before.
"It depends what you call 'narrow'," Biggles replied.
"Oh, hallo, Bigglesworth ! There you are!" said the
C.O. from the door. "Come outside a minute, will you?
Colonel Raymond, from Wing Headquarters, wants a
word with you," he went on as the door closed behind
them.
Biggles saluted and then shook hands with the Wing
officer.
"I've got a job for you, my boy," smiled the Colonel.
Biggles grinned. "I was hoping you'd just called to
see how I was," he murmured.
"I've no time for pleasure trips," laughed the Colonel.
"But seriously, this is really something in your line;
although, to be quite fair, I've put the same
proposition to two or three other officers whom I can trust, in
the hope that someone will succeed if the others
fail."
"Is Wilks-Wilkinson, I mean-one of them?"
asked Biggles.
"Yes, and with an S.E.S he might stand a better
chance of success than you do in a Camel."
Biggles stiffened. "I see," he said shortly. "What
is-"
"I'm coming to that now," broke in the Colonel.
"By the way, what do you think of this?"
He passed an enlarged photograph.
Biggles took it and stared at it with real interest, for
it was the most perfect example of air photography he
had ever seen. Although it must have been taken from
a great height, every road, trench, tree, and building
stood out as clearly as if it had been taken from a thousand feet or less.
"By jingo I That's a smasher I " he muttered. "Is it
one of ours?"
"Yes: but I'm afraid it's the last one we shall ever
get like it," replied the Colonel.
Biggles looked up with a puzzled expression.
"The Huns are using that camera now."
"Camera! Why, is there only one of them?"
"There is only one camera in the world that can take
a photograph as perfect as that, and the Germans
produced it. It's all in the lens, of course, and I've an idea
that that particular lens was never originally intended
for a camera. It may have been specially ground for a
telescope, or a microscope, but that is neither here nor
there. As far as we are concerned, the Germans adapted
it for a camera and we soon knew about it by the
quality of the photographs that fell into our hands
from German machines that came down over our side
of the Lines.
"I'll give you the facts, although I must be brief, as I
have much to do. About three months ago we had a
stroke of luck-a stroke that we never expected. The
machine that was carrying the camera force-landed
over our side, although force-landed is hardly the word.
Apparently it came down rather low to avoid cloud
interference, and the pilot was killed outright by archie,
in the air. The observer was wounded, but he managed
to get the machine down after a fashion.
"As soon as he was on the ground he fainted, which
may account for the fact that he did not destroy or
conceal the camera before he was taken prisoner. That was
how the camera fell into our hands, and we lost no time
in putting it to work. Needless to say, we took every
possible precaution to prevent the Germans getting it
back again.
"We had it fitted to a special D.H.4 the pilot of
which had orders on no account to cross the Lines
below eighteen thousand feet. Naturally, we had to
send the machine over the Lines, otherwise the
instrument would have been no use to us; we didn't
want photographs of our own positions. This pilot also
had instructions to avoid combat at all costs, but if he
did get into trouble, he was to throw the camera overboard,
or do anything he liked with it as long as the
Germans didn't get hold of it again."
"What was to prevent the Huns making another
camera like it? Couldn't they make another lens?"
asked Biggles.
"Good gracious, no! A lens of that sort takes years
of grinding to make it perfect. I doubt if that particular
one was produced inside five years, and being worked
on all the time."
"I see."
"Well, you will be sorry to hear that the camera is
now in German hands again."
"How the dickens did they get it?" exclaimed
Biggles.
The Colonel made a wry face and shrugged his
shoulders. "We may learn after the war is over," he
said. "Perhaps we shall never know. The two officers
who were in the D.H.4 are both prisoners so we have no
means of finding out. One can only imagine that they
were shot down or were forced down by structural
failure, although how and why they failed to destroy
the camera, knowing its vital importance, is a mystery.
"We were sorry when the machine failed to return-
and we were astounded when the Germans began using
the camera again, because we felt certain that our
fellows would have disposed of it, somehow or another.
Naturally if the machine had been shot down from a
great height, or in flames, the camera would have been
ruined. Well, there it is. Our agents in Germany have
confirmed the story. They say that the Germans have
the camera, and are tickled to death about it. To make
sure that they don't lose it again they've built a special
machine to carry it, and that machine is now operating
over our Lines at an enormous altitude."
"What type of machine?" asked Biggles.
"Ah, that we don't know!"
"Then you don't know where it's operating, or what
limit of climb it's got?"
"On the contrary," the Colonel replied, "we have
every reason to believe that it is now operating over
this very sector. The archie gunners have reported a
machine flying at a colossal height, outside the range
of their guns. They estimate the height at twenty-four
thousand feet."
"What!" Biggles exclaimed. "How am I going to get
up there? I can't fly higher than my Camel will go! "
"That's for you to work out. We are having a special
machine built, but it will be two or three months before
it is ready. Meanwhile, we have got to stop the Germans
using that instrument. If we can get it back intact,
so much the better. Rather than let the Germans
retain it, we would destroy it; but, naturally, we should
like to get it back."
"If the machine was shot down and crashed, or fell
in flames, that would be the end of the camera?"
Biggles queried. "And if the crew found they were
forced to land they would throw the thing overboard,
in which case it would be busted?"
"Unquestionably."
Biggles scratched his head.
"You seem to have set a pretty problem," he observed.
"If we don't shoot the machine down, we don't
get the camera. If we do shoot it down, we lose it.
That's what it amounts to. Puzzle-how to get the
camera! Bit of a conundrum, isn't it?"
"Well, there must be an answer," smiled the Colonel,
"because it has already been, captured twice. We got it
once and the Germans got it back."
"Well, sir, I'm no magician, but I'll do my best."
"Think it over-and let me know when you've got it."
Biggles walked back to the ante-room, deep in
thought.
"Let him know when I've got it, eh?" he mused. "By
James! What a nerve!"
Later in the day a lot of cloud blew up from the south
and west, and as this would, he knew, effectually
prevent high-altitude photography, Biggles did no flying,
but roamed about the sheds trying to find a solution to
the difficult problem that confronted him. Finally he
went to bed, still unable to see how the impossible could
be accomplished.
He was still in bed the following morning-for
Mahoney was leading the dawn patrol-when an
orderly-room clerk wakened him by rapping on his door
and handing in a message.
Biggles took the strip of paper, looked at it, then leapt
out of bed as if he had been stung. It was from the
Operations Office, Wing Headquarters, and was
initialled by Colonel Raymond. "High-altitude
reconnaissance biplane crossed the Lines at seven-twenty-
three near Bethune," he read.
That was all. The message did not state that the
machine was the machine, but the suggestion was obvious.
So, pulling a thick sweater over his pyjamas and
hastily climbing into his flying-suit, he made for the
sheds without even stopping for the customary cup of
tea and a biscuit.
He fumed impatiently in the cockpit of his Camel
until the engine was warm enough to take off and then
streaked into the air in the direction of the last known
position of the enemy machine.
While still some distance away from Bethune he saw
two S.E.5's climbing fast in the same direction, but paid
no further heed to them, for he had also seen a long
line of white archie bursts marking a trail across the
blue of the early morning sky.
By raising his goggles and riveting his eyes on the
head of the trail of smoke he could just see the tiny
sparks of white light from the blazing archie as the
gunners followed the raider, who was, however, still
invisible.
"By James, he's high, and no mistake!" thought
Biggles as he altered his course slightly, to cut between
the hostile machine and the Lines, noticing that the
two British S.E.5's carried on the pursuit on a direct
course for the objective.
Five minutes later, at fifteen thousand feet, he could
just see the Boche, a tiny black speck winging slowly
through the blue just in front of the nearest archie
bursts. Another ten minutes passed, during which time
he added another two thousand feet to his altitude, and
he could then see the machine plainly.
"That plane came out of the Halberstadt works, I'll
bet my shirt! " he mused, as he watched it closely.
"There's no mistaking the cut. Well, I expect that's it ! "
he concluded, as the terrific height at which the
machine was flying became apparent. He had never
seen an aeroplane flying so high before, and from the
Colonel's description it could only be the special photographic machine.
It did not take him long to realise that any hopes he
may have had of engaging it in combat were not to be
fulfilled, for although he could manage twenty
thousand feet, the enemy plane was still a good two
thousand feet above him. To his intense annoyance it
actually glided down a little way towards him, and he
distinctly saw the observer produce a small camera and
take a photograph of him.
"That's to show his pals what a lot of poor boobs we
are, I suppose," Biggles muttered. Then a slight flush
tinged his cheeks as the observer leaned far out of his
cockpit and put his thumb to his nose to express his
contempt.
"So that's how you feel, is it, you sausage guzzler?"
snarled Biggles. "That's where you spoil yourself. I'm
going to get you, sooner or later, if I have to sprout
wings out of my shoulder-blades to do it ! "
An S.E.5 sailed across his field of view, nose up and
tail dragging at stalling-point as the propeller strove to
grasp the thin air. As he watched, the machine slipped
off on to one wing and lost a full thousand feet of height
before the pilot could recover control.
He recognised the machine as Wilkinson's from the
neighbouring squadron, and could well imagine the
pilot's disgust, for it would take him a good twenty
minutes to recover his lost height.
"Ugh, it's perishing cold up here! " he muttered, as
he wiped the frost from his windscreen, and then
turned his attention again to the Hun, who was now
flying to and fro methodically in the recognised
manner of a photographic plane obtaining strip
photographs of a certain area. Looking down, Biggles saw
that it was over a large British rest-camp.
"I'd better warn those lads when I get back that they
are likely to have a bunch of bombs unloaded on 'em
tonight," he thought, guessing that before the day was
out the photographs now being taken by the black-
crossed machine would be in the hands of the German
bomber squadrons.
"Well, I suppose it's no use sitting up here and
getting frost-bitten," he continued morosely, as he saw the
S.E. abandon the chase and begin a long glide back
towards its aerodrome. "Still, I'll just leave you my
card."
He put his nose down to gather all the speed possible,
and then, pulling the control-stick back until it
touched his safety-belt, he stood the Camel on its tail
and sprayed the distant target with his guns. He was
still at a range at which shooting was really a waste of
ammunition, but he derived a little satisfaction from
the action. The Camel hung in the air for a second,
with vainly threshing prop, and a line of tracer bullets
streaked upwards.
The enemy observer apparently guessed what Biggles
was doing, and called the pilot's attention, but he did
not bother to return the fire. As one man, pilot and
observer raised their thumbs to their noses and extended their fingers.
Biggles' face grew crimson with mortification, but he
had no time to dwell on the insult, for the nose of the
Camel whipped over as it stalled viciously, and only the
safety-belt prevented him from being flung over the
centre section. From the stall the machine went into a
spin, from which he could not pull it out until he was
down to eighteen thousand feet.
For a moment he thought of going over the Lines in
search of something on which to vent his anger, but the
chilly atmosphere had given him a keen appetite so he
decided to go home for some breakfast instead, and
turned his nose towards Maranique. Looking back, he
could still see the enemy pilot pursuing his leisurely
way.
After a quick breakfast, he returned to the sheds, and
called Smythe, his flight-sergeant, to one side.
"Now," he began, "by hook or by crook I've got to
put three thousand feet on to the ceiling of this
machine!"
The N.C.O. opened his eyes in surprise, then shook
his head. "That's impossible, sir," he said.
"I knew you'd say that," replied Biggles, "but it's
only because you haven't stopped to think. Now,
suppose some tyrant had you in his power and promised to
torture you slowly to the most frightful death if you
couldn't put a few more feet on to the altitude of a
Camel. What would you say?"
The flight-sergeant hesitated. "Well, in that case,
sir, I believe-"
"You don't believe!" retorted Biggles. "You know
jolly well you'd do it: you'd employ every trick you
knew to stick those extra few feet on. Very well; now
let's get down to it and see what we can do. First of all,
what weight can we take off her? Every pound we take
off means so many extra feet of climb-that's right,
isn't it?"
"Quite right, sir."
"Well, then, first of all we can take the tank out and
put a smaller one in holding, say, an hour's petrol.
Instead of carrying the usual twenty-six gallons, I'll carry
ten, which should save about a hundred pounds, for a
rough guess. That means I can climb faster from the
moment I take off. All the instruments can come out, and
I can cut two ammunition belts to fifty rounds each. If
I can't hit him with a hundred rounds he deserves to get
away. If you can think of anything else to strip off, take
it off. Talking of ammunition reminds me that I want
the cut belts filled with ordinary bullets, not tracer. I
don't want to set fire to anything. So much for the weight.
Now, can you put a few more horses in the engine?"
"I could, but I wouldn't guarantee how long it would
last."
"No matter-do it. If it will last an hour, that's all I
want. And you can get some fellows polishing up the
struts and fabric-and the prop. Skin friction takes off
more miles an hour than a lot of people imagine. Now,
is there any way that we can tack on some more lift?
It isn't speed I want, it's climb. Do you think we could
build extensions on the wing-tips? Every inch of plane surface helps."
"If we did," answered the flight-sergeant, "the
machine would be a death-trap; they'd come off at the
slightest strain."
"Still, it could be done."
The flight-sergeant thought hard for a moment.
"I'll take the fabric off and look at the main spar," he
said. "I've got two or three old wings about, so I should
have material. I'm afraid the extensions would break
away, though, or pull the whole plane clean off. The
C.O.-"
"Don't you say a word about this to the C.O. He'd
want me to go down to the repair depot, and you know
what they'd do. They'd just laugh their silly heads off.
Well, you have a shot at it, flight-sergeant. I'll give you
until tomorrow morning to finish."
"Tomorrow morning! It would take two or three
days, even if it's possible !"
Biggles tapped him on the shoulder. "I shall be
along at sparrow chirp tomorrow morning and if that
kite isn't ready to fly, and, what is more, fly to twenty-
three thousand, someone will get it in the neck ! "
"Very good, sir," replied the flight-sergeant grimly.
He had been set a difficult task-almost an impossible
one; but he knew when Biggles spoke in that
tone of voice it was useless to argue. He got busy right
away.
Biggles walked briskly back to the mess.
True to his word Biggles strode across the dew-soaked
turf towards the sheds the following morning as
the first grey streak appeared in the eastern sky, having
already rung up Wing Headquarters and asked that he
might be informed at once if the high-flying German
photographic machine was observed to cross the Lines
within striking distance of Maranique.
A broad smile spread over his face as his eyes fell on
his machine, to which a party of weary mechanics, who
had evidently been up all night, were just putting the
finishing touches.
Every spot of oil and every speck of dust had been
removed from wings and fuselage, while the propeller
gleamed like a mirror; but it was not that that made
him smile. It was the extensions, for the top planes now
overlapped the lower ones by a good eighteen inches.
"It looks pretty ghastly, I must say," he confessed to
the flight-sergeant, who was superintending his handi-
work with grim satisfaction. "Any of our lads who
happen to see me in the air are likely to throw a fit."
Smyth nodded. "Yes, sir," was all he said, but it was
as well that Biggles did not know what was passing in
his mind.
"Well, let's get her out on to the tarmac ready to take
off," ordered Biggles.
"Are you going to test her, sir?"
"I most certainly am not; there's no sense in taking
risks for nothing. I can do all the testing I need when
I'm actually on the job."
After a swift glance around to make sure no one was
about they wheeled the modified Camel out on to the
tarmac. A mechanic took his place by the propeller
ready to start up and Biggles got into his flying kit.
The minutes passed slowly as the sky grew gradually
lighter, and Biggles began to fear that the enemy
machine was not going to put in an appearance. Just as
he had given up hope, Wat Tyler, the recording officer,
appeared running, with a strip of paper in his hand.
He stopped dead and recoiled as his eyes fell on the
Camel's wing-tips, conspicuous in their incongruity.
"What the-what the---" he gasped.
"She's all right-don't worry," Biggles told him.
"Her wings have sprouted a bit in the night, that's all.
Is that message for me?"
"Yes. The German machine crossed the Lines about
four minutes ago, between Bethune and Annoeulin,
following the Bethune-Treizennes road. Wing have
discovered that it's attached to the Flieger Abteilung at
Seclin."
"Thanks! " replied Biggles, and climbed into his
seat. He waved the chocks away after the engine had
been run up and taxied slowly out into position to take-
off. "Well, here goes!" he muttered, as he opened the
throttle.
The lightness of the loading was instantly apparent,
for the machine came off the ground like a feather-
so easily that he was off the ground before he was aware
of it.
For some minutes he watched his new wing-tips
anxiously, but except for a little vibration they seemed
to be functioning perfectly, although a dive would
no doubt take them off-and perhaps the wings as
well.
Grinning with satisfaction he made for the course of
the photographic machine, and, as on the previous
morning, first picked it out by the line of archie smoke
that was expending itself uselessly far below it.
A D.H.4 that was presumably under test came up
and looked at him as he passed over the aerodrome of
Chocques, the pilot shaking his head as if he could not
believe his eyes.
"He thinks he's seeing things ! " smiled Biggles.
"He's going home now to tell the boys about it."
Three S.E.'s were converging on his course some
distance ahead, and they all banked sharply to get a
clearer view of the apparition. Biggles waved them
away, for he had no wish to be compelled to make a
steep turn that might spell disaster.
He reached nineteen thousand feet in effortless style,
and from the way the machine was behaving he felt
that it would without difficulty make the three or four
thousand feet necessary to reach the enemy machine.
Progress became slower as he climbed, of course, and
the German began to draw away from him, for it was
flying level; so he edged his way between it and the
Lines and watched for it to make the first move on its
return journey.
He began to sing as the Camel climbed higher and
higher, for whether he managed to bag the Hun or not
he was at least getting a new thrill for his trouble. But
soon afterwards he began to feel the effects of the
rarefied air, which he had forgotten to take into
consideration, so he stopped singing and concentrated his
attention on the enemy aircraft, which was, he guessed,
probably equipped with oxygen apparatus.
What his own exact altitude was he did not know, for
the altimeter had been removed with the other instruments,
but he felt that it must be between twenty-two
and twenty-three thousand feet. He was still slightly
below the Hun, but he felt that he could close the
distance when he wished. The other was now flying up
and down in regular lines as it had done before, with
both members of the crew seemingly intent on their
work. Once the observer stood up to glance below at
where the three British S.E.s were still circling, and
then resumed his task without once looking in Biggles'
direction, obviously considering himself quite safe from
attack.
Slowly but surely Biggles crept up under the enemy's
tail, a quiver of excitement running through him as the
moment for action drew near. To force the German
machine to land without causing any damage to the
camera was a problem for which he had still found no
solution unless it was possible for him to hit its propeller,
although he had doubt as to his ability to do that.
He was now within a hundred yards, and still neither
of the Germans had seen him. He was tempted to shoot
at once, for the machine presented a fairly easy target;
but, following his plan of trying to hit the propeller, he
put his nose down in order to overtake the big machine
and attack it from the front.
Unfortunately, at that moment, the German pilot,
who had reached the end of his beat, turned;
the observer spotted him and jumped for his gun, but was just
too late.
Biggles was already turning to bring his sights to
bear; his hand found and pressed the gun lever. Rat-
tat-tat-tat....
Biggles may have been lucky, for the result was instantaneous.
Splinters flew off the big machine and it
plunged earthwards. As it passed below him Biggles
saw the pilot hanging limply forward on his safety-belt,
and the observer frantically trying to recover control.
He throttled back and followed it down, and as it came
out into a glide he half expected to see the observer
make a last attempt to reach the Lines; but either his
courage failed him or he was too occupied in controlling the machine,
for he made no such attempt.
Biggles waved an arm furiously as the waiting S.E.'s
closed in, but they stood aside as victor and vanquished
sped through them, with Biggles so close that he could
see the German observer's white face.
At a thousand feet from the ground Biggles saw him
bend forward and struggle with something on the floor
of the cockpit, and guessed that he was endeavouring
to release the camera, about which he had no doubt had
special instructions. But the warning rattle of Biggles'
guns made him spring up again. In his anxiety he tried
to land in a field that was really much too small for
such a big machine, with the inevitable result. It
crashed into the trees on the far side.
Biggles was also feeling anxious, for he knew that as
soon as he was on the ground the German's first action
would be to destroy or hide the camera, so he took a
risk that in the ordinary way he would have avoided.
He put the machine into a steep side-slip, and tried to
get into the same field.
As he flattened out he knew he had made a mistake,
for the machine did not drop as it would normally have
done, but continued to glide over the surface of
the ground without losing height. The modifications
that had been so advantageous a few minutes before
were now his undoing, and although he fish-tailed
hard to lose height, he could not get his wheels on the
turf.
At a speed at which the machine would normally
have stalled he was still gliding smoothly two feet
above the ground, straight towards his victim. There
was no question of turning, and to have forced the
machine down would have meant a somersault.
Seeing that a crash was inevitable Biggles switched
off and covered his face with his left arm, and in that
position piled his Camel on to the wreckage of its
victim.
He disengaged himself with the alacrity of long experience,
and leapt clear-for the horror of fire is
never far from an airman's mind-and looking round
for the observer saw him standing a short distance
away as if undecided whether to make a bolt for it or to
submit to capture.
Biggles shouted to him to return and, without waiting
to see if he obeyed, set to work to liberate the
unfortunate German pilot, who was groaning in his seat.
He derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that
he was still alive, and with the assistance of the German
observer, who came running up when he saw what was
happening, they succeeded in getting him clear.
Wilkinson and another pilot came running down the
hedge, having landed in the nearest suitable field when
they saw the Camel crash.
"I thought you'd done it that time!" panted Wilkinson, as he came up.
"So did I ! " admitted Biggles. "But I've bust my
beautiful aeroplane; I'm afraid I shall never get another
like it."
"What the ... Hallo, here comes Colonel Raymond,"
said Wilkinson. "He must have been watching the
show from the ground; and here's the ambulance
coming down the road. The sooner that high-flying
pilot is in hospital the better; he's got a nasty one
through the shoulder."
"Is the camera there?" cried Colonel Raymond, as he
ran up, accompanied by two staff officers.
"Camera, sir? By Jove, I'd forgotten it!" replied
Biggles. And it was true: in the excitement of the last
few minutes all thoughts of the special object of his
mission had been forgotten.
"Yes, here it is," almost shouted the Colonel, tugging
at something amongst the debris, regardless of the oil
that splashed over his clean whipcord breeches. "That's
lucky-"
He stopped abruptly as several pieces of thick glass
fell out of the wide muzzle of the instrument and
tinkled amongst the splintered struts. He turned the
heavy camera over and pointed accusingly at a round
bullet-hole in the metal case, just opposite the lens.
"You've put a bullet right through it!" he cried.
Biggles stared at the hole as if fascinated. "Well,
now, would you believe that?" he muttered disgustedly.
"And they took five years to make it!"
the turkey
BIGGLES stood by the ante-room window of the officers'
mess with a coffee cup in his hand and regarded the
ever-threatening sky disconsolately.
It was Christmas-time; winter had long since displaced
with fogs and rains the white, piled clouds of
summer, and perfect flying weather was now merely a
memory of the past. Nor did the change of season
oblige by providing anything more attractive or seasonable
than dismal conditions. A good fall of snow would
have brightened up both the landscape and the spirits
of those who thought that snow and Yuletide ought
always to go together.
But the outlook from the officers' mess of No. 266
Squadron was the very opposite of what the designers
of Christmas cards imagine an appropriate setting for
the season.
"Well," observed Biggles, as he looked at it, "I think
this is a pretty rotten war. Everything's rotten. The
weather's rotten. This coffee's rotten-to say nothing
of it being half-cold. That record that Mahoney keeps
playing on the gramophone is rotten. And our half-
baked mess caterer is rotten-putrid in fact!"
"Why, what's the matter with him?" asked Wat
Tyler, the recording officer, from the table, helping
himself to more bacon.
"Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and he tells me he
hasn't got a turkey for dinner."
"He can't produce turkeys out of a hat. What do you
think he is-a magician? How can-"
"Oh, shut up, Wat. I don't know how he can get a
turkey. That's his affair."
"You expect too much. You may not have realised
it yet, but there's a war on! "
Biggles eyed the recording officer sarcastically.
"Oh, there's a war on, is there?" he said. "And
you'd make that an excuse for not having a turkey for
Christmas dinner? I say it's all the more reason why
we should have one. I'll bet every squadron on each
side of the Line has got turkey for dinner-except us! "
"Well, you're a bright boy," returned Wat, "why
don't you go and get one, if it's so easy?"
"For two pins I'd do it!" snorted Biggles.
"Fiddlesticks! "
Biggles swung round on his heel. "Fiddlesticks, my
grandmother! " he snapped. "Are you suggesting I
couldn't get a turkey if I tried?"
"I am," returned Wat. "I know for a fact that Martin
has ransacked every roost, shop and warehouse for a
radius of fifty miles, and there isn't one to be had for
love or money."
"Oh," Biggles said. "Then in that case I shall have
to see about getting one."
Algy caught his eye and frowned. "Don't make rash
promises," he said warningly.
"Well, when I do get one you'll be one of the first
to line up with your plate, I'll be bound," Biggles
retorted. "Look here, if I get the bird, will you all
line up very respectfully and ask for a portion-and
will somebody do my dawn patrols for a week?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Yes, I will," declared Mahoney.
"Good ! You can be getting a stock of combat
reports ready," declared Biggles, turning towards the
door.
"Where are you off to?" called Wat.
"Turkey hunting," replied Biggles shortly.
"And where do you imagine you are going to find
one?"
"You don't suppose I'm going to stand here and
wait for one to come and give itself up, do you? And
you don't suppose I'm going to wander about this
frost-bitten piece of landscape looking for one?"
"But I tell you, you won't find a turkey within
miles!"
"That's all you know about it! " grunted Biggles, and
turning, slammed the door.
Now, at the beginning of that conversation Biggles
had not the remotest idea of where he was going to start
his quest for a turkey. But he had a vague recollection
of seeing a large flock of turkeys below him on an
occasion when he had been flying very low; and as he
left the room to fulfil his rash promise he suddenly
recalled where he had seen them.
He was half-way to the sheds when he called to
mind the actual spot, and realised with dismay that
it was over the other side of the Lines. He paused in
his stride and eyed the sky meditatively. The clouds
were low, making reconnaissance-flying quite useless,
but there were breaks through which a pilot who was
willing to take chances might make his way to the
"sunnyside".
Returning to the ground would be definitely
dangerous, for if the pilot chose to come down through
the clouds at a spot where they reached to the ground,
a crash would be inevitable. But once in the air the
clouds would present plenty of cover. It was, in fact,
the sort of day on which an enthusiastic airman might
penetrate a good distance into enemy territory without
encountering opposition.
He went on thoughtfully towards the sheds. The
farm on which he had seen the turkeys, he remembered,
was close to a village with a curiously shaped
church tower. It was, to the best of his judgment,
between thirty and forty miles over the Lines, and
provided that the clouds were not absolutely solid in that
region he felt confident of being able to find it again.
But he had by no means made up his mind to go,
for the project bristled with big risks. To fly so far
over enemy country alone was not a trip to be lightly
undertaken. And to land in enemy territory and leave
the machine-as he would have to do-was little short
of madness. Was it worth the risk?
He decided it was not, and was about to return to
the mess when he was hailed by Algy and Mahoney,
who had followed him up.
"Are you going turkey hunting in the atmosphere?"
grinned Mahoney.
The remark was sufficient to cause Biggles to change
his mind there and then, for he could stand anything
except ridicule. "Yes," he said brightly. "They fly very
high, you know-higher than you ever go. But I think
I can manage to bag one."
"But you're not seriously thinking of flying?" cried
Algy, aghast. "It's impossible on a day like this! Look
how low the clouds are! "
"You'll see whether I am or not," muttered Biggles.
"Smyth, get my machine out."
"But it-" began the N.C.O.
"Get it out-don't argue. My guns loaded?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tanks full?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then get her out and start up."
"He's as mad as a March hare," declared Mahoney
hopelessly, five, minutes later, as Biggles' Camel roared
up into the moisture-laden sky.
"He is! " agreed Algy. "But it's time you knew him
well enough to know that when he comes back he'll
have a turkey with him-if he comes back at all. I
wish I knew which way he'd gone. If I did I'd follow
him to see that he doesn't get into mischief."
After climbing swiftly through a hole in the clouds
Biggles came out above them at 5,000 feet, and after
a swift but searching scrutiny of the sky turned his
nose north-east. In all directions stretched a rolling
sea of billowing mist that gleamed white in the wintry
sun under a sky of blue.
North, south, east, and west he glanced in turn; but,
as he expected, not a machine of any sort was in sight,
and he settled himself down to his long flight hopefully.
The first difficulty, he thought, would be to find
and identify the village or farm; the next would be to
land in a suitable field near at hand without damaging
the machine.
He realised that his greatest chance of success lay
in the fact that the place was so far over the Lines,
well beyond the sphere of the German aircraft and
the German infantry who were holding, or were in
reserve for, the trenches. To have landed anywhere
near them would have been suicidal.
As it was, his objective was a remote hamlet where
the only opposition he was likely to encounter on the
ground was a farmer, or his men, although there was
always a chance of running into stray German troops
who were quartered or billeted well behind the Lines
at rest camps or on the lines of communication.
"Well, it's no use making plans on a job like this,"
he mused. "Let's find the place and see what happens."
He glanced at his compass to make sure that he
was on his course, and then at his watch, and noticed
that he had been in the air for nearly twenty-five
minutes.
"Almost there," he muttered, and began looking for
a way down through the clouds. But in all directions
they presented an unbroken surface, and rather than
risk over-shooting his objective he throttled back and
with his eyes on the altimeter began gliding down
through them.
He shivered involuntarily as the clammy mist closed
about him and swirled around wings and fuselage
like gale-blown smoke. Down-down-down; 3,000-
2,000-1,000 , and still there was no sign of the ground.
At 500 feet he was still in it, but it was getting
thinner, and at 300 feet he emerged over a sombre,
snow-covered landscape. The country was absolutely
strange to him, so he raced along just below the clouds,
looking to right and left for a landmark that he could
recognise.
For about five minutes he flew on, becoming more
and more anxious, and was beginning to think that he
had made a big error of judgment when straight ahead
he saw the dim outline of a far-spreading wood. He
recognised it at once.
"Dash it! I've come too far," he muttered, and,
turning the Camel in its own length he began racing back
over his course. "There must be a following wind
upstairs to take me as far over as this," he mused, as the
minutes passed, and still he could see no sign of the
village he sought.
He came upon it quite suddenly, and his heart gave
a leap as his eyes fell upon the well-remembered farm-
house, with its rows of poultry houses. But where were
the turkeys? Where was the flock of a hundred or
more plump black birds that had fled so wildly at his
approach on the last occasion? Then he understood.
"Of course!" he told himself savagely. "What a
fool I am! They're all dead by now. Plucked and
hanging up in the Berlin poulterers' shops, I expect.
Ha!"
A sparkle came to his eyes as they fell on a great
turkey cock, evidently the monarch of the flock, that
had, no doubt, been kept as the leader of the next
year's brood. It was standing outside one of the houses,
with its feathers puffed out, its head on one side, and
an eye cocked upwards on the invader of its domain.
"Don't stretch your neck, old cock; you'll have a
closer view of me in a minute," mumbled Biggles, as
he took a quick glance around to get the lie of the
land.
The poultry coops were in a small paddock about
a hundred yards from the farmhouse and its outbuildings,
which, in turn, were nearly a quarter of a mile
from the village. There were several fields near at hand
in which an aeroplane might be landed with some
risk, and as far as he could see, not a soul was in sight.
So much was he able to take in at a glance. There
was no wood, or any other form of cover, so concealment
was out of the question. The raid would have
to be made in the open and depend entirely upon speed
for its success.
"Well, it's no use messing about," he thought, and,
cutting his engine, glided down into a long, narrow
field adjoining the paddock. He had a nasty moment
or two as the machine bumped over the snow-covered
tussocks and molehills with which the pasture was
plentifully besprinkled, but kicking on right rudder
just before the Camel ran to a standstill he managed
to swerve so that it stopped not far from the low hedge
which divided the field from the paddock.
He was out of the cockpit at once, and, with his eye
on the farm, ran like a deer towards the turkey, which
still appeared to be watching the proceedings with the
greatest interest.
It stood quite still until he was not more than ten
yards away, but still on the wrong side of the hedge,
and it was only when he began to surmount this
obstacle that the turkey's interest began to take the
form of mild alarm.
"Tch-tch ! " clucked Biggles gently, holding out his
hand and strewing the snow with imaginary grains of
corn. But the bird was not so easily deluded. It began
to sidestep away, wearing that air of offended dignity
that only a turkey can adopt; and, seeing that it was
likely to take real fright at any moment, Biggles made
a desperate leap.
But the turkey was ready: it sprang nimbly to one
side, at the same time emitting a shrill gobble of alarm.
Biggles landed on all fours in the sodden grass.
"I ought to have brought my gun for you," he raged,
"and then I'd give you something to gobble about, you
scraggy-necked -"
His voice died away as he gazed in stupefied astonishment
at a man who had appeared at the door of the
nearest poultry house-which, judging by the fork he
held, he had been in the act of cleaning.
If Biggles was surprised, it was clear that the man
was even more surprised, and for ten seconds they
stared at each other speechlessly. Biggles was the first
to recover his presence of mind, although he hesitated
as to what course to pursue.
Remembering that he was in occupied Belgian
territory, it struck him that the man looked more like
a Belgian than an enemy.
"Are you German?" Biggles asked sharply, in
French.
"No, Belgian," replied the other quickly. "You are
English, is it not?" he added quickly, glancing
apprehensively towards the farmhouse.
The action was not lost on Biggles. "Are there
Germans in the house?" he asked tersely.
"Yes, the Boches are living in my house! " The
Belgian spat viciously.
Biggles thought swiftly. If there were Germans in
the house they would be soldiers, and, of course, armed.
At any moment one of them might look out of a
window and see him.
"Why have you come here?" the Belgian went on,
in a nervous whisper.
Biggles pointed to the turkey. "For that," he
answered.
The Belgian looked at him in amazement. He looked
at the bird, and then back at Biggles. Then he shook
his head. "That is impossible," he said. "I am about
to kill it, for it has been kept back for the German
officers in the village."
"Will they pay you for it?" asked Biggles quickly.
"No."
"Then I will. How much?"
The Belgian looked startled. "It is not possible! " he
exclaimed again.
"Isn't it?" Biggles cast a sidelong glance at the
turkey, which, reassured by the presence of the owner,
whom it knew, was strutting majestically up and down
within three yards of them. He thrust his hand into his
pocket and pulled out some loose franc notes. "Here,
take this!" he said, and leapt on to the bird.
This time there was no mistake, and he clutched
it in both arms. He seized the flapping wings and held
them together with his left hand, taking a firm grip
of the neck with his right.
"Come on, kill it!" he called to the Belgian. "I
can't!"
There was a sudden shout from the direction of the
house and, looking up, he saw to his horror that a
soldier in grey uniform was standing on the doorstep
watching him. Again the call of alarm rang out and
a dozen or more German troops-some half-dressed,
others fully clad and carrying rifles-poured out.
For a moment they stood rooted in astonishment.
Then, in a straggling line, they charged down into the
paddock.
Biggles waited for no more. Ducking under the out-
stretched arm of the farmer, who made a half-hearted
attempt to stop him, he scrambled over the hedge into
the field where he had left the machine. His foot
caught in a briar, and he sprawled headlong; but the
bird, which he had no intention of relinquishing, broke
his fall, and he was up again at once.
Dishevelled, and panting with excitement, he sped
towards the Camel. Fortunately, the impact of Biggles'
ten stone weight as he fell seemed to have stunned the
bird, or winded it; at any rate, it remained fairly passive
during the dash to the machine.
As he ran, Biggles was wondering what he was going
to do with the bird when he got to the machine, and
blamed himself for overlooking this very vital question.
With time he could have tied it up, but with the
Germans howling like a pack of hounds in full cry
less than a hundred yards away, there was no time for
that.
He did the only thing possible. He slung the bird
into the cockpit, and still holding it with his right
hand climbed in after it. It was obvious at once that
there was no room for both of them, for the cockpit
of a Camel is small, and the turkey is a large bird.
At least, there was no room on the floor of the cockpit
without jamming the control-stick one way or the
other, which certainly would not do. The Camel was
not fitted for side-by-side seating, so in sheer
desperation he plonked the bird on to the seat and sat on it.
He felt sorry for the bird, but there was no alternative,
and he mentally promised it respite as soon as
they got clear of the ground.
A rifle cracked perilously near, and another,
so without waiting to make any fine adjustments, he shoved
the throttle open and sped across the snow. It did not
take him long to realise that he had bitten off rather
more than he could chew, for the turkey was not only
a large bird but a very strong one.
Whether it was simply recovering from the effects
of the fall, or whether it was startled by the roar of the
three hundred horse-power in the Camel's Bentley
rotary engine, is neither here nor there; but the fact
remains that no sooner had he started to take off than
the bird gave a convulsive jerk that nearly threw him
on the centre-section. "Sit still, you fool," he rasped.
"Do you want to kill us both?" In sheer desperation
he pulled the machine off the ground and steered a
crazy course into the sky.
He breathed a sigh of relief as his wheels lifted, for
he had fully expected his undercarriage to buckle at
any moment under the unusual strain. The danger of
the troops being past, he attempted to adjust himself
and his passenger into positions more conducive to
safety and comfort.
He groped for his belt, but quickly discovered that
its length, while suitably adapted for a single person,
was not long enough to meet round him in his elevated
position. So he abandoned it, and keeping under the
clouds, made for home, hoping that he would not find it
necessary to fly in any position other than on even keel.
His head was, of course, sticking well up above the
windscreen, and the icy slipstream of the propeller
smote his face with hurricane force. He tried to crouch
forward, but the turkey, relieved of part of his weight,
seized the opportunity thus presented to make a
commendable effort to return to its paddock.
It managed to get one wing in between Biggles' legs
and, using it as a lever, nearly sent him over the side;
he only saved himself by letting go of the control-
stick and grabbing at the sides of the cockpit with both
hands. The machine responded at once to this unusual
freedom by making a sickening, swerving turn earthwards,
and he only prevented a spin, which at that
altitude would have been fatal, by the skin of his teeth.
"Phew!" he gasped, thoroughly alarmed. "Another
one like that and this bird'll have the cockpit to himself! "
He brought the machine to even keel, at the
same time taking a swift look around for possible
trouble.
He saw it at once, in the shape of a lone Albatros
scout that had evidently just emerged from the clouds,
and was now moving towards him.
He pursed his lips, then automatically bent forward
to see if his gunsight was in order. Only then did he
realize that he was much too high in his seat to get
his eye anywhere near it. In a vain attempt to do this
he again crouched forward, and once more the bird
displayed its appreciation of the favour by heaving to
such good purpose that Biggles was flung forward so
hard that his nose struck the top edge of the windscreen.
He blinked under the blow, and retaliated by
fetching the cause of it a smart jab with his left elbow.
Meanwhile, the Hun was obviously regarding the
unusual position and antics of the pilot with deep
suspicion, for he half turned away before approaching
warily from another direction.
"That fellow must think I've got St. Vitus' Dance,"
thought Biggles moodily, as the bird started a new
movement of short, sharp jerks which had the effect of
causing the pilot to bob up and down and the machine
to pursue a curious, undulating course. "I don't wonder
he's scared!" he concluded. "Oh, help!"
The turkey had at last succeeded in getting its head
free, and it raised it to a point not a foot from Biggles'
face. The look of dignity it had once worn was now
replaced by one of indignation.
For a moment or two all went well, for the bird
seemed to be satisfied with this modicum of freedom,
and began to look from side to side at its unusual
surroundings with considerable interest.
"Yes, my lad, that's a Hun over there! " Biggles
told it viciously, as the Albatros swept round behind
them. "If you start playing the fool again you're likely
to be roasted in your feathers ! "
Taka-taka-taka-taka!
Biggles saw that the Hun had placed himself in a
good position for attack, and knew the matter was getting serious.
He had no intention of losing his life for
the sake of a meal, so he forthwith prepared to jettison
his cargo-an action which had always been in the
background of his mind as a last resort.
But, to his increasing alarm, he found that this was
going to be a by-no-means-simple matter, and he was
considering the best way of accomplishing it when the
staccato chatter of machine-guns, now very close,
reached his ears.
To stunt, or even return the attack, was out of the
question, and now, thoroughly alarmed, he moved his
body as far forward as possible in order to allow the
bird to wriggle up behind him and escape. The turkey
appeared to realise his intention, and began worming
its way upward between his back and the seat.
Taka-taka-taka-taka-taka!
"Get out, you fool!" yelled Biggles, as he heard the
bullets boring into the fuselage behind him; but either
the bird did not understand or else it refused to accept
his invitation, for it remained quite still. There was
only one thing to do, and he did it. He pulled the
control-stick back and shot upwards into the clouds.
To climb right through them-a distance of perhaps
several thousand feet-was, of course, impossible, for
to keep the machine level in such conditions was out of
the question. Still, he hung on until, finding himself
becoming giddy, he dived earthward again, and looked
anxiously for his pursuer as he emerged into clean
air.
To his annoyance, he saw that the Hun was still
there, about three hundred yards behind him.
In turning to look behind he had put his left hand
on the bird, and as he turned once more he saw, to
his horror, that his glove was covered with blood.
"I've been hit!" was his first thought.
Then he grasped the true state of affairs. No wonder
the bird was quiet-it was dead. It had stopped a shot
which in normal circumstances might have caught
him in the small of the back.
The shock sobered him, but he found that it was
a good deal easier to dispose of a dead bird than a
living one. Twenty-odd pounds of dead weight was a
very different proposition from the same weight of jerking,
flapping, muscular life, and he had no difficulty in
stowing it in the space between the calves of his legs
and the bottom of the seat.
This done, he quickly buckled his safety-belt, and,
turning to his attacker, saw, to his intense relief, that,
presumably encouraged by his opponent's disinclination
to fight, the Hun was coming in carelessly to deliver
the knock-out.
Biggles spun the Camel round in its own length
and shot up in a climbing turn that brought him
behind the straight-winged machine. That the pilot
had completely lost him he saw at a glance, for he
raised his head from his sights, and was looking up
and down, as if bewildered by the Camel's miraculous
disappearance.
Confidently Biggles roared down to point-blank
range. The German looked round over his shoulder at
the same moment, but he was too late, for Biggles' hand
had already closed over his gun-lever.
He fired only a short burst, but it was enough. The
Albatros reared up on its tail, fell off on to a wing,
and then spun earthwards, its engine roaring in full
throttle.
Biggles did not wait to see it crash. He was more
concerned with getting home, for he was both cold and
tired. He found a rift in the clouds, climbed up through
it, and, without seeing a machine of any description,
crossed the Lines into comparative safety.
Judging the position of the aerodrome as well as
he could he crept cautiously back to the ground, and
landed on the deserted tarmac.
With grim satisfaction, he hauled the corpse of his
unwitting preserver from the cockpit, and, flinging it
over his shoulder, strode towards the mess.
Dead silence greeted him as he opened the mess
door, and, still in his flying-kit, heaved the body of his
feathered passenger on to the table. Then a babble of
voices broke out.
Mahoney pushed his way to the front, staring.
"Where on earth did you get that?" he cried
incredulously.
"I told you I was going turkey hunting," replied
Biggles simply, "and-well, there you are! Look a bit
closer, and you'll see the bullet-holes. I don't like
reminding you, old lad, but don't forget you're doing
my early patrols next week. And don't forget I'm
carving the turkey ! "