by W E Johns
‘The Australian troops are hidden in the palm-groves around Sidi Arish, but they are leaving there to-night to take their places in the support trenches. You can report their position at Sidi Arish when you get back, and it will be quite safe; von Faubourg will get a photographic machine through by hook or by crook, and he will see that you are correct. The chances are that he will launch a bomb raid to-night, after midnight, by which time the Australians will have gone. In that way we can kill two birds with one stone. You’ll put your reputation up with von Faubourg, and consolidate your position, and the Huns will waste a few tons of bombs.’
‘Fine! We couldn’t have planned a better situation,’ declared Biggles delightedly. ‘And look here, Algy, while I think of it. I have been wondering how you could get a message through to me in case of emergency. There’s only one way that I can think of and it’s this, although it mustn’t be done too often. Behind our aerodrome at Zabala there’s a large olive-grove. You could fly over low at night and drop a non-committal message, cutting your engine twice in quick succession as a signal to let me know that you’ve done it.’
‘It sounds desperate,’ observed Algy doubtfully.
‘It is, but it would only be done to meet desperate circumstances.’
‘Quite, and I think it’s a good idea,’ broke in the Major. ‘I’ve only one more thing to say. I’m afraid you won’t like it, but an idea has been put up to me by H.Q., although they have no idea, of course, of the means I might employ to carry it out. As you are probably aware, the German troops along a wide sector of this front get their water by a pipe-line that is fed from the reservoir just north of your aerodrome.’
‘I’ve noticed the reservoir from the air, but I didn’t know it watered the troops. What about it, sir?’
‘Can you imagine what a tremendous help it would be to us in making preparations for the next big attack if that water-supply failed?’
‘I hope you are not going to ask me to empty the water out of the reservoir,’ smiled Biggles.
‘No, I was going to ask you to blow it up.’
The smile disappeared from Biggles’ face like magic, and he staggered. ‘Great goodness!’ he gasped; ‘you’re not serious, sir?’
‘Would I be likely to joke at such a juncture?’
‘But you can’t make troops die of thirst.’
The Major’s brow darkened. ‘My dear Biggles-worth,’ he said firmly, ‘how many times am I to remind you that we are at war? Either we go under, or Germany. The Germans wouldn’t die of thirst anyway; they would merely be seriously inconvenienced.’
‘But am I not taking enough risks already, without going about blowing things up?’ complained Biggles bitterly. ‘It sounds a tall order to me.’
‘On consideration you may find that it is not so difficult as you imagine. I can supply you with the instrument, a small but powerful bomb—in fact, I brought it with me on the off-chance. You could conceal it in your machine, and hide it when you got back; put it in a safe place until you are ready to use it. Then all you would have to do would be to touch off the time-fuse, set, say, for half an hour, and return to your quarters. That’s all.’
‘All! By Gosh! and enough, too,’ cried Biggles. ‘All right, sir,’ he added quickly, in a resigned tone. ‘Get me the gadget and I’ll put it in my machine; I’ll see what I can do.’
A small but heavy square box was quickly transferred from the back seat of the R.E. 8 to the underseat pocket of the Pup, and Biggles prepared to take his departure. ‘It’s going to be jolly awkward if the Huns want me to collect information, as I expect they will,’ he observed thoughtfully. ‘I wish you could arrange for some dummy camps, or aerodromes, to be put up so that I can report—’ He broke off abruptly and stared upwards.
The others, following the direction of his eyes, saw a tiny aeroplane, looking like a silver and blue humming bird, flash in the sun as it turned, and then race nose down towards them.
Biggles recognized the machine instantly, and understood exactly what had happened. ‘It’s Leffens,’ he yelled, ‘the cunning devil’s followed me. He’s spotted me talking to you. Swing my prop, Algy—quick.’
He leapt into the cockpit of the Pup as the silver and blue Pfalz roared overhead, with the pilot hanging over the side staring at them.
In answer to Biggles’ shrill cry of alarm Algy darted to the propeller of the Pup, and at the word ‘contact’, swung it with the ability of long practice. The engine was still hot, and almost before he could jump clear the machine was racing over the sand, leaving a swirling cloud of dust in its wake.
Biggles, crouching low in the cockpit, was actuated by one overwhelming impulse as he tore into the air, which was to prevent the Pfalz pilot from reaching Zabala and there denouncing him. That Leffens was flying at such an out-of-the-way spot by pure chance he did not for one moment believe; he knew instinctively that he had been followed, possibly at von Stalhein’s instructions—but that was immaterial. The only thing that really mattered was that Leffens had seen him at what could only be a pre-arranged rendezvous with British R.F.C. officers, and he had no delusions about how the man would act or what the result would be. He knew that if he was to continue his work—and possibly the whole success of the British campaign in Palestine hung on his efforts—Leffens must not be allowed to return to Zabala.
Nevertheless, it looked as if he would succeed in getting back, and indeed he had every opportunity of doing so, for his flying start had given him a dear lead of at least two miles. But suddenly he did a curious thing: he turned in a wide circle and headed back towards the oasis. It may have been that he felt safe from pursuit; it may have been that he did not give Biggles credit for acting as promptly as he did; or it may have been that he wished to confirm some detail on the ground. Be that as it may, the fact remains that he turned, and had actually started a second dive towards the oasis when he saw the Pup zooming towards him like an avenging angel. He turned back sharply on his original course and sought to escape, but he had left it too late, for the Pup was slightly faster than the Pfalz.
Biggles pulled up the oil pressure handle of his Constantinesco*4 synchronizing gear and fired a short burst to warm his guns. His lips were set in a thin straight line, and with eyes fixed on the other machine he watched the gap close between them. He had no compunction about forcing a combat with Leffens. Quite apart from the fact that the German disliked him, or possibly suspected him, and was therefore a permanent source of danger, he now knew too much. Yet he was by no means a foeman to be despised, for six victories had already been recorded against his name in the squadron game-book*5.
Biggles’ hand closed over his firing lever, and he sent a stream of bullets down the wake of the fleeing scout. The range was, he knew, far too long for effective shooting, but the burst had the desired effect, and his lips parted slightly in a mirthless smile as he saw the Pfalz begin to sideslip.
‘He’s nervous,’ was his unspoken thought, as he began to climb into position for attack.
But Leffens was looking back over his shoulder and started off on an erratic course to throw his pursuer off his mark. But it availed him little; in fact, in the end such tactics proved to be a disadvantage, for the manoeuvre caused him to lose speed, and with the Pup roaring down on his tail he was compelled to turn and fight.
With the cold deliberation of long experience, Biggles waited until he saw the stabbing tongues of flame leaping from the Pfalz’s Spandau guns, and then he shoved the joystick forward with both hands. Straight down across the nose of the black-crossed machine he roared like a meteor, and then pulled up in a vertical Immelmann turn*6. It was a brilliant move, beautifully executed, and before Leffens could grasp just what had happened the Pup was on his tail, raking the beautifully streamlined fuselage with lead.
But the Pfalz pilot was by no means beaten. He whirled round in a lightning turn and sent a stream of tracer bullets in the direction of the Pup. Biggles felt them hitting his machine, and flinched as he reme
mbered the bomb under his seat, but he did not turn.
The German, unable to face the hail of lead that he knew was shooting his machine to pieces about him, acted with the speed of despair and took the only course left open to him: he flung joystick and rudder-bar over and spun earthward. But if he hoped by this means to throw Biggles off his tail he was doomed to disappointment: not for nothing had his opponent fought half a hundred such combats. The spin was the obvious course, and for a pilot to take the obvious course when fighting a superior foeman is suicidal, for the other man is prepared for the move and acts accordingly.
Leffens, grasping the side of his fuselage with his left hand, and still holding the machine in a spin, looked back, and saw the Pup spinning down behind him. He knew he could not spin for ever. Sooner or later he would have to pull out or crash into the sun-baked surface of the wilderness.
Biggles knew it, too, and waited with the calculating patience of the experienced air fighter. He saw the earth, a whirling band of brown and yellow, floating up to meet him, and saw the first movement of the Pfalz’s tail as the German pilot kicked on top rudder to pull out of the spin. With his right hand gripping the firing lever he levelled out, took the silver and blue machine in his sights, and as its nose came up, fired. The range was too close to miss. The stricken Pfalz reared high into the air like a rocketing pheasant as the pilot convulsively jerked the joystick into his stomach; it whipped over and down in a vicious engine stall, and plunged nose first into the earth. Biggles could hear the crash above the noise of his engine, and caught his breath as a cloud of dust rose high into the air.
He passed his hand over his face, feeling suddenly limp, and circled round the wreck at stalling speed. In all directions stretched the wilderness, flat, monotonous, and forbidding, broken here and there by straggling camel-thorn bushes. The thought occurred to him that the German pilot might not have been killed outright, and the idea of leaving a wounded man in the waterless desert filled him with horror.
‘I shall have to go down,’ he muttered savagely. ‘I don’t want to, but I shall have to; I can’t just leave him.’
He chose an open space as near as possible to the crash, landed safely, and hurried towards the shattered remains of the German machine. One glance told him all he needed to know. Karl Leffens was stone dead, shot through the head. He was lying in the wreckage with his right hand outflung. His glove had been thrown off, and Biggles caught the gleam of yellow metal. Stepping nearer, he saw that it was the signet ring, shining in the sunlight. Automatically, he stooped and picked it up and dropped it in his pocket with a muttered, ‘Might be useful—one never knows.’
Then he saluted his fallen opponent. ‘Sorry, Leffens,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but it was either you or me for ‘it. Your people threw the hammer into the works, so you can’t blame anyone but yourself for the consequences.’ Then, making a mental note to ask Algy to send out a burying party, he took off and returned to the oasis. But of the R.E.8 there was no sign, so he turned again and headed back towards Zabala.
On the way he unfolded his map and looked up the position of Sidi Arish, and smiled grimly when he saw that it was on the fringe of the area pointed out to him by von Faubourg. ‘I hope the Old Man*7 will think I have done a good morning’s work,’ he murmured, as he opened his throttle wide and put his nose down for more speed.
Chapter 5
The New Bullet
It may have been fortunate for Biggles that by the time he reached Zabala a slight wind had got up and was sweeping low clouds of dust across the sandy expanse that served as the aerodrome, and that its direction made it necessary for him to swing round over the sheds in order to land. But it was not luck that made him look carefully below, and to left and right, as he skimmed in over the tarmac in order to see who was about. Thus it was that his eyes fell on von Stalhein standing alone on the lee side of the special hangar. There was nothing unusual about that, but with Biggles the circumstances were definitely unusual, for on the floor of his cockpit reposed an object that could hardly fail to excite the German’s curiosity if he saw it. It was the explosive charge provided by Major Raymond.
It was not very large; indeed, it would have gone into the side pocket of his tunic; but the bulge would have been conspicuous, and it was not customary for airmen to fly with bulging pockets while canvas slots and cavities were provided in aeroplanes for the reception of such trifles as Very pistols, maps, and notebooks.
Consequently Biggles deliberately overshot and finished his run on the far side of the aerodrome in a slight dip that would conceal the lower part of his machine from watchers on the tarmac. He reached far over the side of the cockpit and dropped the bomb lightly on the sand with confidence, for as far as he knew that part of the aerodrome was seldom visited by any one, and the small object would hardly be likely to attract attention if a pilot did happen to see it.
It was as well that he took this precaution, for von Stalhein was waiting for him outside the hangar when he taxied in. Biggles nodded casually as he switched off, and without waiting to remove his flying kit set off in the direction of Headquarters ‘Just a minute; where have you been?’ von Stalhein called after him.
‘I have been making a reconnaissance over the Jebel-Tel country—why?’ replied Biggles carelessly.
‘Did you see anything of Leffens? I believe he was going somewhere in that direction.’
‘I saw a blue and silver machine—those are his colours, aren’t they?’
The German’s eyes never left Biggles’ face. ‘So! you saw him?’ he exclaimed.
‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’ answered Biggles shortly. ‘Is there anything particularly funny about that, if he was working in the same area? The heat made visibility bad, but I think it was his machine. I wish he’d keep away from me in the air; if the British see him hanging about without him attacking they may wonder why.’
‘Did you have any trouble?’
‘Nothing to speak of. But I’ve got an important report to make, so I can’t stay talking now.’ So saying, Biggles turned on his heel and walked quickly in the direction of the fort.
There was an odd expression on the Count’s face as he looked up from his desk and saw who his visitor was. ‘Well, what is it?’ he asked irritably.
‘The Australian troops are hidden among the palms around Sidi Arish, sir,’ stated Biggles, without preamble.
A look of astonishment spread over the Count’s face, but it was quickly replaced by another in which grim humour, not unmixed with suspicion, was evident. ‘So!’ he said, nodding his head slowly. ‘So! Where is Hauptmann von Stalhein?’
‘On the tarmac, sir—or he was a moment ago.’
‘Ask him to come here at once. That’s all.’
Biggles left the room with the feeling that something had gone wrong, although he could not imagine what it was. Had the Count been pleased with his report, or had he not? He did not know, and the more he thought about it the less was he able to decide. He hurried around the corner of the sheds in search of von Stalhein, and then stepped back quickly as he saw him. For a moment he watched, wondering what he was doing, for he appeared to be working on the Pup’s engine.
Biggles heard footsteps approaching, and rather than be found in the act of spying on his superior officer, he stepped out into the open and walked towards von Stalhein, who was now examining something that he held in the palm of his hand, something that he dropped quickly into his pocket when he heard some one coming.
‘Will you please report to the Count immediately,’ Biggles told him with an assurance he was far from feeling.
‘Certainly,’ replied the other. ‘I shall be glad to see him,’ he added, with a suspicion of a sneer, and limped off towards the fort without another word.
Biggles watched him go with mixed feelings.
‘What the dickens was he up to?’ he muttered in a mystified tone, as the German disappeared through the entrance to the fort. He took a swift pace or two to where von Stalh
ein had been standing. One glance, and he knew what had happened, for there, plain to see in the cowling, was a small round hole that could only have been made by one thing—a bullet. His heart gave an unpleasant lurch as he realised just what it implied, and his teeth came together with a click. ‘That cunning devil misses nothing,’ he growled savagely. ‘He knows now that I’ve been under fire.’ Then, seized by a sudden alarm, he lifted the cowling, and looking underneath, saw what he had feared. In a direct line with the puncture in the cowling there was another jagged hole in the wooden pattern that divided the engine from the cockpit. But the hole did not go right through. The bullet must have been stopped by it, in which case it should still be sticking in the stout ash board; but it was not.
‘He found it, and he’s dug it out with his pen-knife,’ thought Biggles, moistening his lips. ‘He’ll know it’s a German bullet,’ he went on, thinking swiftly, with his brain trying to grasp the full purport of the new peril. then he gave a sigh of relief as an avenue of escape presented itself. ‘It might have been fired some time ago; if he says anything about it I can say that it’s always been there—was probably one of he shots fired by the Hun who brought the machine down,’ he decided, turning towards the aerodrome buildings, for he did not want von Stalhein to return and see him examining the machine.
For a moment or two he was tempted to turn and jump into the machine and escape to the British lines while he still had an opportunity of doing so, but he fought back the desire, and then started as his eyes fell on two soldiers who had appeared round the corner of the hangars. He noticed that they carried rifles. They stopped when they saw him and leaned carelessly against the side of the hangar. ‘Watching me, eh? You’d have shot me too, I expect, if I’d tried to get back into that machine,’ he thought banefully. ‘Well, now we know where we are, so I might as well go and get some lunch; it looks as if it might be my last.’
He walked unhurriedly to his room, changed, and then strolled into the ante-room of the Mess, where a number of officers were lounging prior to going in to lunch. A word or two of conversation that was going on between a small group at the bar reached his ears, and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he deliberately paused to listen. ‘Leffens . . . late . . . new bullets . . .’ were some of the words he heard.
