Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  1: How it Began

  2: Algy Gets a Shock

  3: Biggles Gets a Shock

  4: A Meeting and a Duel

  5: The New Bullet

  6: More Shocks

  7: Still More Shocks

  8: Forced Down

  9: A Fight and an Escape

  10: Shot Down

  11: A Night Flight

  12: A New Pilot—and A Mission

  13: Vickers Versus Spandaus

  14: Biggles Flies a Bomber

  15: Ordeal by Night

  16: Checked

  17: Hare and Hounds

  18: An Unwelcome Visitor

  19: Biggles Gets Busy

  20: The Night Riders

  21: Sterne Takes a Hand

  22: Biggles Explains

  Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Captain W. E. Johns

  Copyright

  About the Book

  SHOT DOWN!

  It’s The First World War and in a desperate game of bluff and counterbluff Biggles is sent to work for the Germans while secretly reporting back to the British. Can he survive the eagle-eyed suspicions of Von Stalhein? How will he cope flying in combat against the British? The slightest mistake could cost Biggles his life.

  Biggles is back! Now classic fiction, the action-packed adventures of cult hero and flying ace Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth are available in new editions for another generation.

  BIGGLES

  FLIES EAST

  Captain W.E. Johns

  RED FOX

  Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks for help given in the preparation of these editions to Jennifer Schofield, author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd and especially to the late John Trendler.

  Foreword

  The careers of most of those who served in the Great War for any length of time resolve themselves, in retrospect, into a number of distinct phases, or episodes, rather than one continuous period of service in the same environment. For example, an artillery officer serving in France might find himself, a month later, acting as an aerial gunner on the Italian Front, and after seeing service in that capacity for a while would be sent home to England to get his pilot’s wings. Later, when he qualified, he might be rushed off to fill a vacancy in another theatre of war—possibly Salonika or East Africa.

  Each of these periods was quite unlike the others; it represented a different climate, a different set of faces, and an entirely different atmosphere.

  The career of Captain James Bigglesworth, M.C., D.F.C. (known to his friends as ‘Biggles’), was no exception, as those who have read his already published war experiences will agree. But there was one period that has not so far been mentioned, and the reasons have been twofold.

  In the first place Biggles, far from taking any credit for the part he played in this particular affair, regards the whole tour of duty with such distaste that even his friend, the Honourable Algernon Lacey (who, it will be remembered, served with him in No. 266 Squadron when it was stationed at Maranique, in France), seldom if ever referred to it. Just why Biggles should feel this way about what were undoubtedly vital affairs of national importance is hard to see, but the fact remains. Like many other successful air fighters, he was a law unto himself, and intolerant of any attempt to alter his point of view—which may have been one of the reasons why he was successful.

  Secondly, the Official Secrets Act*1 has been tightened up, and as one of the principal actors in the drama that is about to be disclosed was alive until recently—not only alive, but holding an important position in the German Government—it was thought prudent to remain silent on a subject that might have led to embarrassing correspondence and possibly international recriminations. This man, who at the time of the events about to be narrated was a trusted officer of the German Secret Service, in the end met the same fate as those of his enemies who fell in his hands–blindfold, with his back to a wall, facing a firing party in the cold grey light of dawn. Whether or not he deserved his fate is not for us to question.

  There is little more to add except that Biggles, at the time, was a war-hardened veteran of twelve months’ active service. He had learnt to face the Spandaus*2 of the German Fokkers without flinching, and the whoof, whoof, whoof of ‘archie’*3 bursting around his machine left him unmoved. He afterwards confessed to Algy that it was not until his feet had trodden the age-old sands of the Promised Land that he learnt to know the real meaning of the word Fear.

  When he went there he was, like many another air warrior, still a boy; when he came back he was still a boy, but old beyond his years. Into his deep-set hazel eyes, which less than eighteen months before had pondered arithmetic with doubt and algebra with despair, had come a new light; and into his hands, small and delicate—hands that at school had launched paper darts with unerring accuracy—had come a new grip as they closed over joystick and firing lever. When you have read the story perhaps you will understand the reason.

  1935W.E.J.

  The word ‘Hun’ as used in this book, was the common generic term for anything belonging to the enemy. It was used in a familiar sense, rather than derogatory. Witness the fact that in the R.F.C. a hun was also a pupil at a flying training school.

  W.E.J

  Chapter 1

  How it Began

  I

  Captain James Bigglesworth, R.F.C.*1, home from France on ten days’ leave, stopped at the corner of Lower Regent Street and glanced at his watch. ‘Ten to one; I thought it felt like lunch-time,’ he mused, as he turned and strolled in the direction of the Caprice Restaurant, the famous war-time rendezvous of R.F.C. officers in London. At the door he hesitated as a thought occurred to him, and he contemplated dubiously the clothes he was wearing, for he was what would be described in service parlance as ‘improperly dressed’, in that he was not in uniform but civilian attire. The reason for this was quite a natural one.

  His uniform, while passable in Flanders, where mud and oil were accepted as a matter of course, looked distinctly shabby in London’s bright spring sunshine, and his first act on arrival had been to visit his tailor’s with a view to getting it cleaned and pressed. This, he was informed, would take some hours, so rather than remain indoors he had purchased a ready-made suit of civilian clothes–to wear while his uniform was being reconditioned, as he put it. It was an obvious and pardonable excuse from his point of view, but whether or not it would be accepted by the Assistant Provost Marshal or the Military Police, if he happened to run into them, was quite another matter. So he hesitated when he reached the fashionable meeting-place, torn between a desire to find someone he knew with whom he could talk ‘shop’, and a disinclination to risk collision with the A.P.M. and his minions who, as he was well aware, kept a vigilant eye on the Caprice.

  ‘What does it matter, anyway? At the worst they can only cancel my leave, which won’t worry me an awful lot,’ he decided, and pushed open the swing doors. There were several officers and one or two civilians lounging round the buffet, but a swift scrutiny revealed that they were all strangers, so he selected a small table in a secluded corner and picked up a menu card.

  He was still engrossed in the not unpleasant task of choosing his lunch when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw some one appear at his side, and thinking it was only a waiter he paid no immediate attention; but when he became conscious of the fact that some one was in the act of settling in the opposite chair he looked up with surprise and disapproval, for there were plenty of vacant tables.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Brunow,’ said the newcomer
, easily, and without hesitation.

  ‘Sorry, but you’re making a mistake,’ replied Biggles curtly, resuming his occupation.

  ‘I think not,’ went on the other coolly. ‘Have a drink.’

  Biggles eyed the speaker coldly. ‘No, thanks,’ he answered, shortly. ‘I have already told you that you are making a mistake. My name isn’t Brunow,’ he added, in a tone that was calculated to end the conversation forthwith.

  ‘No! Ha, ha, of course not. I quite understand. In the circumstances the sooner a name like that is forgotten the better, eh?’

  Biggles folded the menu and laid it on the table with deliberation before raising his eyes to meet those of his vis-à-vis. ‘Are you suggesting that I don’t know my own name?’ he inquired icily.

  The other shrugged his shoulders with an air of bored impatience. ‘Don’t let us waste time arguing about a matter so trivial,’ he protested. ‘My purpose is to help you. My name, by the way, is Broglace–Ernest Broglace. I –’

  ‘Just a minute, Mr Broglace,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘You seem to be a very difficult person to convince. I’ve told you plainly enough that my name is not Brunow. You say yours is Broglace, and, frankly, I believe you, but I see nothing in that to get excited about. As far as I am concerned it can be Dogface, Hogface, or even Frogface. And if, as I suspect, your persistent efforts to force your company upon me are prompted by the fond hope of ultimately inducing me to buy a foolproof watch, a bullet-proof vest, or some other useless commodity, I may as well tell you right away that you are wasting your time. And what is more important, you are wasting mine. I require nothing to-day, and if I did I shouldn’t buy it from you. I trust I have now made myself quite clear. Thank you. Good morning.’

  Broglace threw back his head and laughed heartily, while Biggles watched him stonily.

  ‘For sheer crust, your hide would make elephant-skin look like tissue paper,’ went on Biggles, dispassionately, as the other showed no sign of moving. ‘Are you going to find another table–or must I?’

  Broglace suddenly leaned forward, and his manner changed abruptly. ‘Listen, Brunow,’ he said quietly but tersely. ‘I know who you are and why you’re in mufti*2. I know the whole story. Now, I’m serious. The service has outed you, and there is nothing left for you but to be called up as a conscript, be sent to France, and be shot. What about earning some easy money—by working for people who will appreciate what you do?’

  Biggles was about to make a heated denial when something in the face opposite seemed to strike a chill note of warning, of danger, of something deeper than he could understand, and the words he was about to utter remained unsaid. Instead, he looked at the man for a moment or two in silence, and what he saw only strengthened his suspicions that something serious, even sinister, lay behind the man’s uninvited attentions.

  There was nothing very unusual in the stranger’s general appearance. Of average height and built, he might have been a prosperous City man, just over military age, possibly a war profiteer. His hair was fair, close cut, and began high up on a bulging forehead. His neck was thick, and his face broad and flat, but with a powerful jaw that promised considerable strength of will. But it was his eyes that held Biggles, and sent a curious prickling sensation down his spine. They were pale blue, and although partly hidden behind large tortoiseshell glasses, they held a glint, a piercing quality of perception and grim determination, that boded ill for any one who stood in his path. Biggles felt an unusual twinge of apprehension as they bored into his own and he looked away suddenly. ‘I see—I see,’ he said slowly.

  There was a sound of laughter from the door, and a party of R.F.C. officers poured into the room, full of the joy of life and good spirits; some made for the buffet and others moved towards the luncheon-tables. Biggles knew one or two of them well, and they gave him the excuse he needed, although he acted more upon intuition than definite thought.

  ‘Look here,’ he said quickly, ‘I know some of these fellows; perhaps it would be as well—’

  ‘Exactly. I agree,’ replied the other, rising swiftly to his feet. ‘I shall be here between tea and dinner—say about 6.30. The place will be empty then.’ With a parting nod, he walked away quickly and was lost in the crowd now surging through the entrance.

  Biggles sat quite still for some minutes after he had gone, turning the matter over in his mind. Then he made a quick, light meal and joined the crowd at the buffet. He exchanged greetings with Ludgate of 287 Squadron, whom he knew well, and drew him aside. ‘Listen, Lud,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you something. Did you ever hear of a chap named Brunow?’

  ‘Good gracious! yes; he’s just been slung out of the service on his ear, and about time too. He was an awful stiff.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but I heard some fellows talking about it in the Alhambra last night. I believe he was hauled up on a charge of “conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman”, but I fancy there was more to it than that. Anyway, he was pushed out, and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Did you know him personally?’

  ‘Too true I did. I was at the same Training School with him.’

  ‘Was he anything like me—in appearance, I mean?’

  Ludgate started. ‘Well, now you come to mention it, he is, a bit; not so much, though, that any one knowing you would make a mistake.’

  ‘I see. Thanks, laddie—see you later.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh, just for a look round,’ replied Biggles airily. Which was not strictly true, for he looked neither right nor left as he strode briskly along Coventry Street and down St Martin’s Lane into the Strand, where he turned sharply into the Hotel Cecil, the Headquarters of the Air Board.

  After the usual wait and interminable inquiries, he at length found himself outside a door, bearing a card on which was neatly printed:

  AIR STAFF INTELLIGENCE

  Major L. Bryndale

  He tapped on the door, and in reply to the invitation to enter, walked in and found himself facing a worried-looking officer who was working at a ponderous desk littered with buff correspondence-jackets and memo-sheets.

  ‘I’m Captain Bigglesworth of 266 Squadron, home on leave, sir,’ began Biggles.

  ‘Why are you not in uniform?’

  ‘That is one of the things I shall have to explain, sir, but I have something else to tell you that I think you should know.’ Briefly, but omitting nothing of importance, he described his recent encounter in the restaurant.

  The Intelligence Officer looked at him long and earnestly when he had finished, and then, with a curt, ‘Take a seat, don’t go away’, left the room, to return a few minutes later with a grey-haired officer whose red tabs bespoke a senior Staff appointment.

  Biggles rose to his feet and stood at attention.

  ‘All right, sit down,’ said the Staff Officer crisply. ‘Have you seen this fellow who accosted you before today?’

  ‘Never, sir.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Biggles obeyed to the best of his ability.

  ‘You know about the Brunow affair, I suppose?’ asked the other when he had finished.

  ‘Vaguely, sir. I ascertained, subsequent to my conversation with Broglace, that he had been dismissed from service recently.’

  ‘Quite.’ The General drummed on the table with his fingers. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘this may lead to something or it may not, but I think we should follow it up. Your leave is cancelled with effect from to-day and you will be posted to this department for special duty forthwith. I’ll see that your leave is made up later on. In the meantime, I want you to try to get inside this fellow’s confidence; find out just what he is up to, and report back here tomorrow. Meet him to-night as he suggests.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And I think it would be a wise precaution if you employed the next few hours making yourself thoroughly acquainted with Brunow’s history, so that you can assume his identity i
f necessary. Major Bryndale will give you his dossier.’ Then, turning to Major Bryndale, ‘I’ll leave Bigglesworth with you,’ he said, and left the room.

  II

  At ten-thirty the following morning Biggles was ushered by Major Bryndale into the more spacious office of Brigadier-General Sir Malcolm Pendersby; his face wore a worried expression, for although he was not exactly nervous, he was by no means pleased at the turn events were taking.

  The General glanced up as he entered. ‘Well, Bigglesworth—sit down—what happened yesterday after you left us? Did the fellow turn up?’

  ‘He did, sir,’ answered Biggles, ‘and it certainly looks as if—well—’

  ‘Tell me precisely what happened.’

  Biggles wrinkled his forehead. ‘To tell the truth, sir, it isn’t easy. You see, nothing definite was said, and no actual proposition made. It seemed to me that Broglace had something to put forward, but was being very careful.’

  ‘As indeed he was bound to be if he is engaged in espionage,’ put in the General dryly.

  ‘Quite so, sir. As I was saying, it was all very indefinite; his conversation consisted chiefly of hints and suggestions, but if I may judge, the position at the moment is this. Broglace thinks I am Brunow; he knows Brunow has been cashiered*3, and somehow or other knows quite a lot about his history. For example, he knew quite well what I only learnt yesterday from Brunow’s dossier—that he is of Austrian extraction and was in the Argentine when war broke out. He knows, too, that although his financial interests are—or were—British, his sympathies, by reason of his parentage, may be with Germany and the Central Powers. He is working on the assumption that Brunow’s disgrace has embittered him against the British—an assumption that I took care not to dispel—and that he might be induced to turn traitor.’

  ‘But you say he made no definite offer.’

  ‘That is quite true, sir, but it struck me that he was trying to convey his idea by suggestion rather than by actual words, in the hope that I would make the next move. He dare not risk going too far, in case he was making a mistake.’