by W E Johns
Mahoney’s lips continued to move as he struggled to speak. “It was Norman—poor little beggar! First time over, too—the swine—he didn’t give him a chance—not a—” His voice rose to a shrill crescendo.
“Stop that!” cut in the C.O. quickly, and then more quietly, “Steady, Mahoney.”
For a moment the Flight-Commander and his Commanding Officer eyed each other grimly. Mahoney’s eyes fell first. Slowly he took off his sidcot suit and threw it on the ground with studied deliberation. Cap and goggles followed, leaving that part of his face which they had protected like a white mask.
“Officers in the Orderly Room, please,” said the C.O. turning on his heel.
Mahoney lit a cigarette and followed the little group moving towards the Squadron office. “Sit down, everybody,” began Major Mullen. “A bad show. I blame no one. Anybody could have been caught the same way. It might have been me, or it might have been you, Mahoney. From some points of view it was a low-down trick; from others, well, it was a smart piece of work; anyway, the fellow was within his rights. He’d done it before, farther north; I’ve heard about it. He did it three times at 197 Squadron, once as they were taking off. He’ll try again, and if he pulls it off again here it’s our own funeral. We’ve had our lesson. We’ll get him; we’ve got to get him. You know the unwritten law about having an officer shot down on his own aerodrome? We can’t show our faces in another mess until we do get him. You know what Wing will say about this. That’s all. Go and get a drink, Mahoney. I’ll see Flight-Commanders here in half an hour.”
An hour later Major Mullen was running over the result of the conference. “I think Mahoney’s right,” he said, “The Fokker probably came over the line at eighteen or twenty thousand with his engine off. He must have been watching you all the time, Mahoney. He knew that you were at the end of the patrol and hadn’t enough juice left to go back after him. All right, then. Mahoney, you’ll take the patrol in the morning; come back in the ordinary way when it’s over. Bigglesworth, you’ll take your Flight to the ceiling. Hang around over Mossyface Wood until you see Mahoney corning back and then follow him home. Stay as high as you can and don’t take your eyes off Mahoney’s Flight for a moment. If the Fokker comes down, one of you should get him. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll keep it up until he does. It means long hours, but we can’t help that All clear? Good. Let’s go and eat.”
II
The following morning Mahoney was bringing his Flight back by way of Mossyface Wood as arranged. His altimeter registered 10,000 feet. Often he leaned back in his cockpit and studied the sky above him long and earnestly for a sign of Bigglesworth’s Flight, but a film of cirrus-cloud far above concealed everything beyond it. Against that cloud a machine would show up like a beetle on a white ceiling; his roving eyes searched it, section by section, from horizon to horizon, but not a speck broke its pristine surface.
At 6.30 he turned his nose for home according to plan, maintaining his height until he reached the line and only taking his eyes from aloft to see that Manley and Forest in the other two Camels were in place. He crossed the line in the inevitable flurry of archie, and started a long glide towards the aerodrome. A cluster of black archie bursting far away to the north showed where some allied machines were moving; there was apparently nothing else in the sky, yet he felt uneasy. What was the other side of that cloud? He wished he could see. Every fibre of his war-tried airman’s instinct reacted against that opaque curtain. He flew with his eyes ever turned upwards. Suddenly he caught his breath. For a fraction of a second a black spot had appeared against the cloud and disappeared again almost before he could fasten his eyes on it. Keeping his eyes on the spot he raised his left arm, rocked his wings, opened up his engine, and warmed his guns with a short burst. What was going on up there?
He was soon to know. A machine, whether friend or foe he could not tell, wrapped in a sheet of flame, hurtled downwards through the cloud to oblivion, leaving a long plume of black smoke in its wake. Mahoney stiffened in his seat. Next came a Camel spinning wildly out of control. Then another Camel, streaking for home, followed by five Fokkers. Mahoney muttered through his clenched teeth and swung round and up in a wide arc, knowing as he did so that he could never get up to the Fokkers in time to help the Camel, now crossing the line at a speed which threatened to take its wings off. A barrage of archie appeared between the Fokkers and the Camel, and the black-crossed machines, after a moment’s hesitation, turned and dived for home. Mahoney raced after the solitary Camel, whose pilot, seeing him coming, throttled back to wait for him.
They landed together and the C.O. ran out to meet them. Bigglesworth, the pilot of the lone Camel, was out first. “I’ve lost Swayne and Maddison,” he said grimly, as the others joined him. “I’ve lost Swayne and Maddison,” he repeated. “I’ve lost Swayne and Maddison; can’t you hear me?” he said yet again. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
“Nobody’s looking at you, Biggles,” broke in the C.O. “Take it steady and tell us what happened.”
Biggles groped for his cigarette-case. “We’re boobs,” he muttered bitterly. “Pilots, eh? We ought to be riding scooters in Kensington Gardens. What did we do? We did just what they knew we’d do; and they were waiting for us, the whole bunch of ‘em!” He passed his hand over his face wearily as his passion spent itself. He tossed his flying-coat on to the tarmac and went on quietly: “I was up to 20,000 or as near as I could get, waiting. So were they, but I didn’t see ‘em at first; must have been hiding in that murk. I saw Mahoney coming, heading for Mossyface, and then I saw the White Fokker, by himself. He wasn’t there for you, Mahoney; he was there to get me down. I didn’t look up and that’s a fact. I saw the Fokker going down and I went down after him. Where the others came from I don’t know. They were into us just before we hit the cloud. The first thing I saw was the tracer, and poor Mad going down in flames next to me. I went after the white bird like a sack of bricks, but I lost him in the cloud. Swayne had gone, so I made for home, and I’m lucky to be here. That’s all.” He turned and strode off towards the mess. Major Mullen watched him go without a word.
“I’ll have a word with you, Mahoney, and you, Mac,” he said, and together they entered the Orderly Room. “We’ve got to do something about this,” he began briskly. “We shall all be for Home Establishment if it goes on. Bigglesworth’s going to bits fast, but if he can get that Fokker it’ll restore his confidence. We’ve lost three machines in two days and we are going to lose more if we don’t stop that white devil.”
Bigglesworth entered.
“Hullo, Biggles; sit down,” said the C.O. quietly.
Biggles nodded. “I’ve been trying to work it out, sir,” he began, “and this is my idea. First of all, you’ll notice that this Fokker doesn’t go for the leaders. He always picks on one of the rear men in the formation; you saw how he got Norman. All right. Tomorrow we’ll do the usual patrol of three. Mahoney or Mac can lead and I’ll be in the formation. I’ll pretend I’m scared of everything and sideslip away from every archie burst. Coming home, I’ll hang back and the others will go on ahead without me. That should bring him down. If he comes I’ll be ready and we’ll see who can shoot straightest and quickest. If he gets me—well—he gets me, but if he doesn’t I’ll get him. He’ll have height of me, I know, and that’s where he holds the cards. I’ve got an idea about that, too. Someone will have to take every available machine and wait upstairs to keep the others off if they try to butt in. Don’t make a move unless they start coming down; let them make the first move; that should give you height of ‘em. I’m having an extra tank put in my machine so that have some spare juice when he’ll reckon I’ve none left, in case I want to turn back.”
The C.O. nodded. “That sounds all right to me,” he said. “I’ve only one thing to say, and that is, I’ll take the party up topsides. You can rely on me to keep anybody busy who starts to interfere with your show. Good enough! We’ll try it in the morning.”
I
II
The pink hue of dawn had turned to turquoise when Mahoney turned for home at the end of the dawn-patrol. One machine of his Flight was lagging back, and for the hundredth time he turned and waved for it to dose up, smiling as he did so. Biggles had played the novice to perfection. Even now, a bracket of archie sent him careering wide from the formation.
Mahoney’s roving eyes were never still; slowly and methodically they searched every section of the air around, above, and below. Far from them a Rumpler was making for home followed by a long line of white archie, but he made no attempt to pursue it. Far to the north-east a formation of D.H. Nines was heading out into the blue; high above them he could just make out the escorting Bristols. He gazed upwards long and anxiously. He could see nothing, but he knew that somewhere in the blue void at least one formation of fighters was watching him that very moment. Biggles, too, was watching; he had pushed his goggles up to see better. Now and then he dived a little to gain speed so that the watchers above might think he was trying to keep in position. They were going home now; if the White Fokker was about today he would soon have to show up. The formation started to lose height slowly; Biggles warmed his gun every few minutes, but still kept up the pretence of bad flying.
They were well over the line now. The two other Camels had dropped to 5,000 feet, but he hung back slightly above them. Once he threw a loop to show his apparent relief at being safely back over his own side of the line. Dash it, why didn’t the fellow come? The two other Camels were nearly a mile ahead when Biggles suddenly focused his eyes on a spot far above and held it. Was it, or was it not? Yes! Far above and behind him a tiny light flashed for an instant, and he knew it for the sun striking the planes of a machine; whether friend or foe he could not tell. He kept his eyes glued to the spot. He could see the machine now, a tiny black speck rapidly growing larger.
Biggles smiled grimly. “Here comes the hawk. I’m the sparrow. Well, we’ll see.”
The machine was plainly visible now, a Fokker D.VII. There was no sign of archie, so he concluded that the Fokker had shut his engine off and had not yet been seen from the ground.
He opened his throttle wide and put his nose down slightly in order to get as much speed as possible without alarming the enemy above. The Fokker was coming down now with the speed of light; a cluster of archie far above it showed that the pilot had cast concealment to the winds. Biggles pushed his nose down and raced for home. Speed —speed—speed—that was all he wanted now to take him up behind the Fokker. How near dare he let him come? Could the Fokker hit him first burst? He had to chance it. At 200 feet a stream of tracer spurted from the Fokker’s Spandaus. Biggles moved the rudder-bar, and, as the bullets streamed between his planes, pulled the stick back into his stomach. Half-rolling off the top of the loop and looking swiftly for his adversary, he caught his breath as the Fokker swept by a bare ten feet away. He had a vivid impression of the face of the man in the pilot’s seat, looking at him. Biggles was on its tail in a flash. Through his sights he saw it still climbing. Rat-tat-tat—he grated his teeth as he hammered at the gun, which had jammed at the critical moment.
The Fokker had Immelmanned and was coming back at him now, but Biggles was ready, and pulled his nose up to take it head-on. Vaguely, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another Fokker whirling down in a cloud of smoke and other planes above. The White Fokker swerved and he followed it round.
They were circling now, each machine in a vertical bank not a hundred feet apart, the Fokker slowly gaining height. Biggles thought swiftly. “Ten more circles and he’s above me and then it’s goodbye.” There was one chance left, a desperate one. He knew that the second he pulled out of the circle the Fokker would be on his tail and get a shot at him. Whatever he did the Fokker would still be on his tail at the finish. If he rolled, the Fokker would roll too, and still be in the same position.
If he spun, the Fokker would spin—there was no shaking off a man who knew his job; but if he shot out of the circle he might get a lead of three hundred feet, and if he could loop fast enough he might get the Fokker from the top of his loop as it passed underneath in his wake. If he was too quick they would collide; no matter, they would go to Kingdom Come together. A feeling of fierce exultation swept over him.
“Come on, you devil!” he cried. “I’ll take your lead,” and shot out of the circle. He shoved his stick forward savagely as something smashed through the root of the nearest centre-section strut, and then he pulled it back in a swift zoom. A fleeting glance over his shoulder showed the Fokker three hundred feet behind. He pulled the stick right back into his stomach in a flick loop and his eyes sought the sights as he pressed his triggers. Blue sky—blue sky—the horizon—green fields—where was the Fokker? Ah! There he was, flying straight into his stream of tracer. He saw the pilot slump forward in his seat. He held the loop a moment longer and then flung the Camel over on to even keel, looking swiftly for the Fokker as he did so. It was rocketing like a hard-hit pheasant. It stalled: its nose whipped over and with the engine racing it roared down in an almost vertical dive. Biggles saw the top plane fold back, and then he looked away feeling suddenly limp and very tired.
A mile away five straight-winged machines were making for the line, followed by four Camels; another Camel was trying to land in a ploughed field below. Even as he watched it the wheels touched and it somersaulted; a figure scrambled out and looked upwards, waving. Biggles sideslipped down into the next field and landed. Major Mullen, the pilot of the wrecked Camel, ran to meet him.
“Good boy!” he cried. “You brought it off.”
[Back to Contents]
THE PACKET
“Two no-trumps.” Biggles, newly appointed to Captain’s rank since his affair with the White Fokker, made the bid as if he held all the court-cards in the pack.
“Two diamonds,” offered Quinan, sitting on his left.
Mahoney, Biggles’ partner, looked across the table apologetically. “No bid,” he said, wearily.
“Don’t you ever support your partner?” complained Biggles. “You’ve sat there all the afternoon croaking ‘No bid’ like a parrot. You ought to have a gramophone record made of it, and keep it with your scoring block.”
“Who are you grousing at?” fired up Mahoney. “Any fool could sit and chirp no-trumps if they held the paper you do. If you could only play the cards you hold we’d get a rubber sometimes, instead of being a thousand points down.”
“What sort of a game do you call this, anyway?” broke in Batson, the fourth player. “Why don’t you show each other your cards and have done with it?”
Major Mullen entered the anteroom. “I want you, Biggles, when you’ve played the hand. Stand by, everybody; it’s clearing,” he continued, addressing others in the room and referring to the steady drizzle which had washed out flying so far that day.
Biggles looked at the hand which his partner had laid on the table with disgust. The knave to two diamonds was his best suit. “Clearing, eh?” he said, grimly. “So am I. Holy smoke, what a mitt!” He was two down on the bid. He rose. “Tot it up,” he invited his opponents. “I’ll settle when I come back.”
“No you don’t; you settle now,” snapped Batson. “Miller went West owing me seventy francs—you cough it up, Biggles.”
Biggles reluctantly counted out some notes. “Take it and I’ll starve,” he grumbled. “We’ll finish this last rubber when I come back.” He followed Major Mullen to the Squadron office, where he found an officer awaiting them, whose red tabs showed that he came from a higher command.
“Captain Bigglesworth—Colonel Raymond,” began the C.O. “This is the officer I was telling you about, sir.”
Biggles saluted and eyed the stranger curiously. The Colonel looked at him so long and earnestly that Biggles ran his mind swiftly over the events of the last few days, trying to recall some incident which might account for the senior officer’s presence. “Sit down, Bigglesworth,” said the Colonel at last. “Smoke, if you like.” Biggles
sat and lit a cigarette.
“You are wondering why I’ve sent for you,” began the Colonel. “I’ll tell you. Frankly, I’m going to ask you to undertake a tough proposition.”
Biggles stiffened in his chair.
“First of all,” went on the Colonel, “what I am going to tell you is secret. Not a word to anybody, and I mean that. Not one word. Now, this is the position. You know, of course, that we have— er— agents— operatives call ‘em what you like—over the line. They are usually taken over by aircraft; sometimes they drop by parachute and sometimes we land them, according to circumstances. Sometimes they come back; more often they do not. Sometimes the pilot who takes them over picks them up at a prearranged spot at a subsequent date. Sometimes—but never mind—that doesn’t concern you.
“A fortnight ago such an agent went over. He did not come back. We know, never mind how, that he obtained what he went to fetch, which was, to be quite frank, a packet of plans. An officer went to fetch him by arrangement, but the enemy had evidently watched our man and wired the field. When the F.E. pilot—it was at night—got to the field it was a death-trap. The officer was killed landing. The operative bolted, but was taken. We have since received information that he has been shot. Before he was taken he managed to conceal the plans, and we know where they are. We want those plans badly—urgently; in three days they will be useless.”
“I see,” said Biggles slowly, “and you want me to go and fetch them?”
“If you will.”
“May I ask roughly where they are?” said Biggles.
“You may,” replied the Colonel; “they are near Ariet.”
“Ariet?” cried Biggles. “Why, 297 and 287 Squadrons are both nearer than we are; why not send them?”
“For two reasons,” replied Colonel Raymond: “297 Squadron is equipped with D.H.9’s and a ‘nine’ could not get down in the field. Obviously, if it were possible, we should send an F.E. over at night, but, unfortunately, a night landing is out of the question. Only a single-seater could hope to get in, and then only by clever flying. A single-seater might just get into the field, collect the plans, and get off again before the enemy arrived. We photographed the place at once, naturally. Here are the prints—take a look at them.” He tossed a packet of photographs casually to Biggles. “The place is about two miles from where the disaster occurred, and the poor fellow must have been taken somewhere near that spot.”
