by W E Johns
As soon as the man opposite to him spoke, he realised who he was, and what had happened. The noise of the aircraft engine was also explained. The man was Ramon, and he had chosen the same method of transportation as themselves. There was, he saw too late, every reason why he should.
Ramon seemed very amused. “Well, say, boss, ain’t that just swell? I guess you’ve done the job for us,” he sneered, in a voice coarse with an exaggerated American accent.
Ginger breathed hard in tight-lipped anger; but there was nothing he could do, perceiving that there was nothing to prevent the half-caste from shooting them down with impunity on the slightest provocation, for the chances of their bodies being found were slight. He had a feeling that had the half-caste not been so sure of himself he would probably have shot them anyway.
Grinning, Ramon stepped forward, relieved Mr. Cotter of his bag and Ginger of his rifle, and returned to his companion. Then his eyes narrowed menacingly. “You two guys will be wise to stay right here for a while,” he said coldly. “Come on, Joe. What are we waiting for?”
Laughing, revolvers still in their hands, the two men turned about and strode off back the way they had come.
Ginger nearly choked, and but for the fact that Mr. Cotter laid a restraining hand on his arm he might have acted foolishly. As it was, he could only look at his companion with a mixed expression of chagrin and apology. “I ought to be kicked from one end of America to another,” he muttered.
“Why?” inquired Mr. Cotter. “We couldn’t have foreseen this.”
“In the first place I should have known that the machine we heard wasn’t ours,” answered Ginger. “Secondly, I should have carried my rifle in my hand instead of hanging it round my neck like a fool.”
Mr. Cotter shook his head. “Perhaps it was a good thing you weren’t carrying the rifle,” he said quietly. “Ramon is a dead shot with that revolver of his. I don’t know about the white man. I presume that was the pilot who flew him here.”
Ginger was thinking fast now that the effects of shock were wearing off. It struck him that Ramon must have assumed that they were alone in the jungle, or had with them only native porters. At all events, it seemed certain that he had not seen Biggles and his aircraft, or he would not have behaved with such carefree confidence.
“Let’s get back to Biggles and tell him what has happened,” he said tersely. “We may still be able to knock that crook off his perch.” Without waiting for a reply, he set off at his best pace.
Nothing more was said. Ten minutes later, dripping with perspiration, they met Bertie coming towards them. He carried a haversack, and a rifle at the ready.
Ginger, in his exasperation, did not waste time in futile greetings, but at once rapped out the story of their disaster. Berne did not seem in the least surprised. “Relax, laddie, relax!” he requested. “Biggles thought something like that might happen, and asked me to toddle along to offer the jolly old helping hand—if you see what I mean.”
“Then you saw the other machine arrive?”
“We couldn’t help seeing it, old boy. It’s down on the next lake.”
“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it,” said Ginger miserably. “That infernal crook Ramon has got the seeds.”
“All of them?”
“All those we picked.”
“Then let’s go back and pick some more.”
“And while we’re picking them Ramon will be away with a bagful,” returned Ginger with biting sarcasm.
“Too bad, laddie, too bad. But Biggles says we’re not to come back without the goods.”
Ginger hesitated.
“Orders is orders,” said Bertie. “Let’s go gathering nuts in May.”
“We might as well get some while we’re here,” put in Mr. Cotter.
Ginger shrugged. “Okay,” he agreed. “But I should have thought the best plan was to go after Ramon and make him cough up the seeds he took from us. We might just have been in time. However, if that’s how Biggles wants it....”
They went back to the area in which the orchids seemed to thrive, and, by all joining in the work, soon filled not only Bertie’s haversack but their pockets as well. Bertie agreed warmly with all that Mr. Cotter had said about the peculiar property of the seeds. “Unless we can get this fug out of our togs people will think we’re running a bally beauty parlour,” he remarked, as they set off for the lake.
Ginger, in his impatience, strode on, expecting every moment to hear Ramon’s machine take off.
Reaching the Scud, he found Biggles and Algy having a cup of tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Got the stuff?” inquired Biggles, looking up. ‘But I needn’t ask,” he went on quickly. “I can smell it from here. You stink as if you’d been swimming in eau-de-Cologne.”
“We’ve got the stuff all right,” answered Ginger. “So has that rat Ramon,” he added grimly. He described briefly what had happened. “Instead of sitting here having a tea-party, what’s wrong with going after him?” he concluded belligerently. “Maybe we can still race him to the coast.”
“No hurry,” returned Biggles calmly, breaking a biscuit.
Ginger frowned. “Is Ramon’s machine still on the water?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then what’s he doing? I should have thought he would have been away by now.”
“He’s probably having a little trouble getting started,” averred Biggles casually.
Algy was grinning.
Ginger’s eyes narrowed. “What goes on?” he demanded suspiciously.
Biggles answered. “If you were careless, so was Ramon. If we didn’t expect him, he didn’t expect us. We saw his machine come in, of course, and guessed who it was. We cocked an eye over the rushes and made out that there were only two of them—pilot and passenger. They both went off. That was silly. They made the mistake of supposing they had the place to themselves. The pilot should have stood by his machine. As he did not, naturally we strolled over to have a look at it.”
“Then what?”
Biggles’ lips twitched. “Nothing much. Merely as a precaution, in case they got into mischief, Algy and I removed the sparking-plugs from the engine as the simplest way of keeping the aircraft on the floor. That, no doubt, is why it is still here.”
There was a titter of laughter, induced as much as anything by the expression on Ginger’s face.
“What are you going to do about the plugs?” Ginger wanted to know.
“That will depend upon what Mr. Cotter has to say about it,” returned Biggles. He turned to the explorer. “Could this unpleasant fellow, Ramon, get back to the coast without an aircraft, do you think?”
“Oh yes,” was the reply. “He’s an experienced jungle traveller.”
“How long will it take him?”
“Not less than six weeks.”
“That, I imagine, would give you time to register the new perfume and to put it on the market?”
“Ample time.”
“That’s capital. Mr. Ramon and his crooked pal can walk home. But come on. By this time they will have discovered why their engine won’t start, and they’re liable to be peeved about it. As they have firearms it might be a good thing if we moved off before they can use them. I believe in avoiding trouble if it’s possible. They’ll hear us start up. If they’re any good at guessing it won’t take them long to work out what’s happened to their plugs.”
“When they get back they’ll kick up a row about you leaving them stranded,” predicted Ginger. “They’ll lose their aircraft.”
“In the ordinary way, I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing,” asserted Biggles. “But they started the rough stuff, not us. We’ve a perfectly sound argument in saying that we acted in self-defence. After all, they pinched your rifle. They held you up at the point of a pistol. These are criminal offences. In my view, in those circumstances we are justified in taking steps to prevent
them from doing any further mischief; and I’m sure any court would agree. What we’ve done, in effect, is to sentence them to six weeks’ hard labour. They’d get worse than that if we handed them over to the police. But that’s enough talking. All aboard. Let’s get home.”
Everyone took his place in the machine. Ginger sat in the second-pilot’s seat. Biggles started up and taxied out to the middle of the lake. As he turned into position for the take-off two men rushed into the shallows, waving frantically.
“Save your strength, you rascals,” Biggles told them. “You’ll need it.”
A few minutes later the machine was in the air, climbing for height as it turned towards the east. On all sides, jungle-matted hills rolled away to the pitiless horizons.
“Fancy having to walk home through that little lot,” muttered Ginger.
Biggles laughed.
“Is there something funny about it?” inquired Ginger.
“I think so,” answered Biggles. “Ramon and his partner came here to pinch a perfume. Well, they’ve got it, and no doubt they’ll try to hang on to it. But I’ll wager that long before they get home everything they’ve got will so reek of the stuff that they’ll wish they’d never seen it. Did you ever hear of poetic justice?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can call this perfumed justice.”
Biggles hummed softly to himself as he set a course for the coast.
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BIGGLES, THEN AND NOW
THE stories that follow are reprinted to comply with many requests for information about Biggles’ early days as an air pilot. They are taken from the first Biggles book published, The Camels Are Coming. This and Biggles of the Camel Squadron have long been out of print, and copies are rare. Both consist of short stories and deal with Biggles’ exploits in the first world war. Biggles was then a junior officer in the Royal Flying Corps, then a branch of the army, for the R.A.F. did not come into existence until 1918. When the books were written the threat of a second world war had not darkened the horizon, and their main purpose was to keep alive the traditions established by the pioneers of war-flying.
Air combat was then very different from what it has become; but let it be remembered that it was in the first world war that the primary lessons of air warfare were learned. Equipment (Biggles flew a Sopwith Camel) was primitive, but bullets struck just as hard as in Hitler’s war. “Flak”, then called “archie”, was just as much a menace, for machines were comparatively slow, had a low ceiling, and were therefore easier to hit than their modem counterparts. There were no parachutes to give pilot or gunner a chance if things went wrong.
In fact, there was none of those things that make the cockpit of a modern aircraft look like a watch-maker’s shop. There was no wireless telephony. Once the wheels of an aircraft were off the ground the pilot was his own master, to go where he wished. There was no “blind-flying” equipment, no oxygen apparatus and no electrically heated clothing. Most machines were fitted simply with an airspeed indicator, an altimeter, an air engine rev. counter, and an inclinometer that might as well have been left at home for all the practical use it was. There might be petrol and oil gauges, but it was unwise to rely on them. A pilot flew “by the seat of his pants”, with his head in the open air. One could usually recognise a “Camel” pilot by the oil-soaked shoulders of his tunic. (The castor-oil used by rotary engines was thrown out as fast as it was used, and a pilot, leaning out to see where he was going, collected some of it on his person.)
True, in 1918 there appeared a machine with a covered cockpit—the S.E.5. It was promptly dubbed “the greenhouse”, and at the front the cover was usually removed. Pilots hated the unaccustomed shut-in feeling.
The Sopwith Camel was an efficient machine in its day, but tricky to fly. It had little inherent stability. The excessive “torque” of the rotary engine tended to turn the whole machine over, and holding on controls to counteract this was a tiring business. The same torque enabled a pilot to turn in a flash in one direction, but against torque the aircraft had to be dragged round.
In short, war-flying in the period covered by these stories was a simple but dangerous occupation. You took off, found an opponent, and shot at each other until one fell, or ran out of bullets. This was air combat in its infancy, but it lent itself to tricks that could be employed to advantage. Few pilots lived long enough to become senior officers, for which reason the average age of a major commanding a squadron was about twenty-one. We used to say that if a pilot, after being posted to a service squadron, could survive the first forty-eight hours he might live for a month. By that time, if he had learned the tricks of the trade, he had a reasonable prospect of life.
The following stories were the first “Biggles” stories ever written. Biggles was a young man then, so if you notice a difference in his behaviour, or if his methods and equipment seem strange, you will understand why.
W.E.J.
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THE WHITE FOKKER
To THE casual observer, the attitude of the little group of pilots clustered around the entrance of “B” Flight hangar was one of complete nonchalance. MacLaren, still wearing the tartans and glengarry of his regiment, a captain’s stars on his sleeve, squatted uncomfortably on an upturned chock. To a student of detail the steady spiral of smoke from the quickly drawn cigarette, lighted before the last half was consumed, gave the lie to his bored expression. Quinan, his “maternity” tunic flapping open at the throat, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his slacks, leaning carelessly against the flimsy structure of the temporary hangar, gnawed the end of a dead match with slow deliberation. Swayne, bareheaded, the left shoulder of his tunic as black as ink with burnt castor-oil, seated on an empty oil drum, was nervously plucking tufts of wool from the tops of his sheepskin boots. Bigglesworth, popularly known as “Biggles”, a slight, fair-haired, good-looking lad still in his ‘teens, but an acting Flight-Commander, was talking, not of wine or women, as novelists would have us believe, but of a new fusee spring for a Vickers gun which would speed it up another hundred rounds a minute.
His deep-set hazel eyes were never still and held a glint of yellow fire that somehow seemed out of place in a pale face upon which the strain of war, and sight of sudden death, had already graven little lines. His hands, small and delicate as a girl’s, fidgeted continually with the tunic fastening at his throat. He had killed a man not six hours before. He had killed six men during the past month—or was it a year?—he had forgotten. Time had become curiously telescoped lately. What did it matter, anyway? He knew he had to die some time and had long ago ceased to worry about it. His careless attitude suggested complete indifference, but the irritating little falsetto laugh which continually punctuated his tale betrayed the frayed condition of his nerves.
From the dim depths of the hangar half-a-dozen tousled-headed ack-emmas watched their officers furtively as they pretended to work on a war-scarred Camel. One habit all ranks had in common: every few seconds their eyes would study the western horizon long and anxiously. A visiting pilot would have known at once that the evening patrol was overdue. As a matter of fact, it should have been in ten minutes before.
“Here they come!” The words were sufficient to cause all further pretence to be abandoned; officers and men together were on their feet peering with hand-shaded eyes towards the setting sun, whence came the rhythmic purr of rotary engines, still far away. Three specks became visible against the purple glow; a scarcely audible sigh was the only indication of the nervous tension that the appearance of the three machines had broken. The door of the Squadron office opened and Major Mullen, the C.O., came out. He would not have admitted that he too had shared the common anxiety, but he fell in line with the watchers on the tarmac to await the arrival of the overdue machines.
The three Camels were barely half a mile away, at not more than 1,000 feet, when a new note became audible above the steady roar of the engines. It was the shrill scream of wind-torn wings and wire
s. Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Three white puffs of smoke appeared high above the now gliding Camels. Bang!—Whoof! Bang!—Whoof! —the archie battery at the far end of the aerodrome took up the story. Not a man of the waiting group moved, but every eye shifted to a gleaming speck which had detached itself from the dark-blue vault above. A white-painted Fokker D.VII was coming down like a meteor behind the rearmost Camel. There was a glittering streak of tracer. The Camel staggered for a moment and then plunged straight to earth. At the rattle of guns the other two Camels opened their engines and half-rolled convulsively. The leader, first out, was round like a streak at the Fokker, which, pulling out of its dive, had shot up to 3,000 feet in one tremendous zoom, turned, and was streaking for the line. The stricken Camel hit the ground just inside the aerodrome; a sheet of flame leapt skywards.
From first to last the whole incident had occupied perhaps three seconds, during which time none of the spellbound spectators on the tarmac had either moved or spoken. The C.O. recovered himself first, and with a bitter curse raced towards the Lewis gun mounted outside his office. Half-way he changed his mind and swung towards the blazing Camel in the wake of the ambulance, only to stop dead, throw up his hands with a despairing gesture, and turn again towards the hangar.
“Get out, you fool; where do you think you’re going—he’s home by now,” he snapped at Bigglesworth, who was feverishly clambering, cap-and-goggles-less, into a Camel.
As the two surviving Camels taxied in, a babble of voices broke loose. Mahoney, who had led the flight, leaned swaying for a moment against the fuselage of his machine. His lips moved, but no sound came; he seemed to be making a tremendous effort to pull himself together. His eyes roved round the aerodrome to identify the pilot of the other Camel. Manley, half-falling out of the cockpit of the other machine, hurried towards him. “All right, old lad, take it easy; it wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly.
