by W E Johns
“Anybody about, Mac?” he almost snapped at MacLaren, who had walked over to meet him.
“Yes, Mahoney’s out with Forest and Hall on an O.P.,” replied MacLaren, looking at him curiously. “Here they come now,” he added, pointing to the sky in the direction of the line; “two of em, anyway.”
Biggles watched the two machines land, and Mahoney and Forest dimbed out of their cockpits. “Where’s Hall, Mahoney?” he asked in a strained voice.
“About somewhere—won’t be long, I expect— he went fooling off on his own after I’d washed out,” answered the Flight-Commander.
“Towards Berniet?”
“Yes—why?”
“You can pack his kit—he won’t be coming back,” said Biggles slowly, with a catch in his voice. He turned on his heel and walked towards the Squadron office.
Major Mullen smiled as he entered. “Sit down, Biggles,” he said, the smile giving way to a look of anxiety as he noted the expression on the pilot’s face. “What’s wrong, laddie?” he asked, moving quickly towards him.
Biggles told what he’d seen, while the C.O. listened incredulously. “Good heavens, Biggles,” he said at the end, “what a hellish thing to do! What shall we do about it?”
“I’m going over to 231 Squadron to see if they know anything about that other machine,” said Biggles shortly. “It was never one of ours.”
“If it’s a Hun we shall have to warn every Squadron along the line,” exclaimed Major Mullen gravely.
“And the Hun will know he’s spotted within twenty-four hours,” sneered Biggles. “You know what their intelligence service is like. At the first word he’ll change the number on the machine and then we shall be in a mess. We’ve got him taped as it is, and he doesn’t know it. No! You leave this to me, sir; we’ve got to take a chance. We’ll get him, don’t you worry.”
Twenty minutes later Biggles strode into the ante-room of 231 Squadron. A chorus of salutations, couched according to individual taste, greeted him.
“No, thanks— can’t stay now,” he replied curtly to a dozen invitations to have a drink.
“On the water-waggon, Biggles?” asked Major Sharp, the C.O..
“No, sir, but I’ve got several things to do and I don’t want to waste time. I have a word for your private ear, sir.”
“Certainly; what is it?” replied the Major at once.
“Have you got a Camel on your strength numbered J-9982?” inquired Biggles.
“I don’t know, but Tommy will tell us. Tommy,” he called to the Equipment Officer, “come here a minute. Do you happen to know if we have a machine numbered J-9982 on the station?”
“Not now, sir; but we had. That was Jackson’s machine; he went west at the beginning of the month, you remember.”
“Anybody see him crash?” asked Biggles.
“Don’t think so, but I’ll check up on the combat reports if you like. Speaking from memory, he went on a balloon-strafing show and never came back; yes, that was it.”
“So that was it, was it,” said Biggles slowly. “Righto, Tommy; many thanks.”
Biggles took Major Sharp on one side and spoke to him earnestly for some minutes, the Major nodding his head as if in agreement.
“Right, sir,” said Biggles at length. “We’ll leave it like that. Goodbye, sir. Cheerio, Tommy—cheerio, chaps.”
Major Mullen looked up as Biggles re-entered his office. “It was as I thought, sir,” began Biggles. “A Hun is flying that kite.”
“I can’t believe a German pilot would do such a dastardly thing,” said the Major, shaking his head.
“No ordinary officer would, of course,” agreed Biggles. “I’ll bet you anything you like he is in no regular squadron. None of the Richthofen Staffel would stand for that stuff any more than we would. But you’ll find skunks in every mob if you look for ‘em. The higher command wouldn’t stand in a chap’s way if he was low enough to do it. Maybe they’ve detailed somebody for the job for a special reason; you can never tell. One thing is certain. The pilots over the other side know all about it or they’d shoot him down themselves. He’s got a private mark somewhere. The archie batteries must know it, too. He drops them a light or throws some stunt occasionally so that they’ll know it’s him and not open fire.”
“I shall have to report it to Wing,” said the Major seriously.
“Give me forty-eight hours, sir,” begged Biggles, “and then you can do what you like. Report it to Wing and it will be known from Paris to Berlin and from Calais to Switzerland before the day’s out. There won’t be one Hun flying a Camel. Every Camel our archie batteries see will have a Hun in it, and they’ll shoot at it. We’ll be a blight in the sky— a target for every other pilot in the air to shoot at. A pretty mess that would be. Perhaps that is what the Huns are hoping for. Stand on what I tell you, sir; forget it for twenty-four hours, anyway, and you won’t regret it. I’m going to talk to Mac and Mahoney, then I’m going over to look for this flying rat. I know his hunting-ground. I just want to see him once more— just once— through my sights.” Biggles, breathing heavily, departed to look for the other Flight-Commanders.
He found them in the sheds and called them aside. “Listen, chaps,” he began, “there’s a Hun flying a Camel over the line. His number is J-9-9-8-2, remember it. If you let your imagination play on that for a moment you’ll realize just what it means. We’ve got to get him, and get him quick. It was he who got Hall—I saw him, the dirty cannibal.”
MacLaren turned pale as death. Mahoney, his Celtic temper getting the better of him, spat a burst of profanity. His rage brought tears to his eyes.
“Well,” said Biggles, “that’s that, and it’s enough; I’m going to look for him. You coming?”
“We’re coming,” said the two pilots together, grimly.
“All right. Now look, we’ve got to be careful. You can’t shoot at a Camel like you would at a Hun. I’m going to paint my prop boss, centre-section and fin, blue. Sharp is painting all 231 Squadron machines like that, so we’ll know ‘em. He knows the reason, but none of his officers do. None of our fellows are leaving the ground until we come back. If you see a Camel without these markings it may be him. If he is over Hunland and not being archied, it’s almost certain to be him; but look for the number on the fin before you shoot—J-9982. If you see a Camel wearing that number, shoot quick and ask questions afterwards. He was working over the Berniet sector when I saw him, and that is where I am going to look for him. I’m off now.”
II
The sun was low in the western sky. Biggles, patrolling at 14,000 feet, yawned. He was tired. This was his fourth patrol. He seemed to have been in the sky all day—looking for a Camel without a blue prop-boss. He had seen MacLaren and Mahoney several times; they too were still searching.
Biggles had found a Hanoverana and shot it down in flames at the first burst without satisfying the stone-cold desire to kill which consumed him. He had been attacked by three Tripehounds1 and had returned the attack with such savage fury and good effect that they acknowledged their mistake by diving for home.
This should have improved his temper, but it did not. He wanted a certain Camel, and nothing would satisfy him until he had seen it plunging earthwards in flames, like its victim. He almost hoped neither Mac nor Mahoney would find it and rob him of the pleasure. He yawned again. He could hardly keep awake, he was so tired. “This won’t do,” he muttered, and leaned out of the cockpit to let the icy slipstream fan his cheeks.
Three black dots appeared in front of him, and he had warmed his guns before he realised they were only oil spots on his goggles. He wiped them clean and for the hundredth time began a systematic scrutiny of the atmosphere in every direction.
It would be dark in half an hour. Already the earth was a vast well of blue and purple shadows. “It’s a washout,” he thought bitterly. “I might as well be getting home. He’s gone to roost.”
As without losing height he commenced a wide circle towards his own lines
his eye fell on a tiny speck far over and heading still farther in over the British lines. Small as it was, he recognised it for a Camel.
“Mac or Mahoney going home, I expect,” he said to himself. “Well, I’ll just make one more cast.”
The outer edge of his circle took him well over the enemy lines, and ignoring the usual salvo of archie he looked long and searchingly into the enemy’s country. A cluster of black spots attracted his attention. He recognised it for the German archie and flew closer to ascertain the reason for it. Turning, he climbed steadily and kept his eye on the bursts. He could see two machines approaching, now, and the straight top wings and dihedral-angled lower planes told him they were Camels. A minute later he could see that both had blue prop-bosses. Mac and Mahoney!
Suddenly he stiffened in his seat. Who was it then that he had seen far over his own lines? He was round in a flash, heading for the direction taken by the lone machine. Five minutes later he saw a machine coming towards him. It was a Camel! With his heart thumping uncomfortably with excitement he circled cautiously to meet it. His nostrils quivered when he was close enough to see that the prop-boss was unpainted and the leading edge of the centre-section was brown. An icy hand seemed to clutch his heart. Suppose he made a mistake! Suppose it was one of his own boys—out without orders? He daren’t think about it.
The Camel was close now, the pilot waving a greeting, but Biggles’s eyes were fixed on the fin. J-.... the numbers seemed to run into each other. Was he going blind? He pushed up his goggles and looked again. J-9982, he read, and grated his teeth.
The Camel closed up until it was flying beside him; the pilot smiling. Biggles showed his teeth in what he imagined to be an answering smile.
“You swine,” he breathed: “you dirty, unutterable, murdering swine! I’m going to kill you if it’s the last thing I do on earth.” Something made him glance upwards. Five Fokker triplanes were coming down on him like bolts from the blue. “So that’s it, is it?” he muttered. “You’re the bait and I’m the fish. That’s your game. Well, they’ll get me, but you’re getting yours first.” Swiftly he moved the stick slightly back, sideways, and then forwards. “Hold that, you rat,” he shouted as he pressed his triggers. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. A double stream of glittering tracer poured into the false Camel’s cockpit. The pilot slumped forward in his seat and the machine nosed downwards.
Beside himself with rage, Biggles followed it, the Fokkers forgotten. “Hold that—AND THAT”—he gritted through his teeth as he poured burst after burst at pointblank range. “Burn, you hound!” He laughed aloud as a streamer of yellow fire curled aft along the side of the fuselage.
The rattle of guns near at hand made him look over his shoulder. A Fokker was on his tail, Spandaus stuttering. Another Fokker roared past with a Camel apparently glued to its tail; and still another Fokker and Camel were circling in tight spirals above.
“Go to it, boys,” grinned Biggles as he pulled the joystick right back into his stomach, and half-rolling off the top of the loop looked swiftly for the Fokker that had singled him out for destruction. Rat-tat-tat-tat-.... “Oh! there you are!” he muttered, as the Fokker, which had followed his manoeuvre, came at him again.
Biggles, fighting mad, flew straight at it, guns streaming lead. The German lost his nerve first and swerved, Biggles swinging round on its tail, guns still going. Without warning, the black-crossed machine seemed to go to pieces in the air, and Biggles turned to look for the others. He saw a Camel spinning—a Tripehound following it down. He thrust his joystick forward and poured in a long burst at the Fokker, which, turning like lightning and nearly standing on its tail, spat a stream of death at him. It stalled as Biggles zoomed over it.
Where were the others? Biggles looked around for the Camel he had seen spinning and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it far below streaking for the line. A Fokker was smoking on the ground near the false Camel. Then he discovered another Camel flying close behind him. For the first time since the combat began he realised that it was nearly dark. Feeling suddenly limp from reaction he waved to his companion, and together they dived for the line, emptying their guns into the enemy trenches as they passed over. The Camel below had already crossed the line to safety.
Major Mullen was waiting anxiously for them when they landed.
“Have you been balloon-strafing, Biggles?” he asked, looking aghast at bullet-shattered struts and torn fabric.
“No, sir,” replied Biggles, with mock dignity, “but I have to report that I have today shot down a British aircraft numbered J-9982, recently on the strength of 231 Squadron, and more recently the equipment of an enemy pilot, name unknown.”
He broke into a peal of nerve-jangling laughter, which ended in something like a sob. “Get me a drink somehody, please,” he pleaded. “Lord! I’m tired.”
[Back to Contents]
* * *
1 Fokker Triplanes.
THE BALLOONATICS
CAPTAIN JAMES BIGGLESWORTH brought the Headquarters car to a halt within a foot of the Service tender which had just stopped outside the Restaurant Chez Albert in the remote village of Clarmes. As he stepped out of the car, Captain Wilkinson of 287 Squadron leapt lightly from the tender. Biggles eyed him with astonishment.
“Hullo, Wilks !” he cried. “What the deuce brings you here?”
“What are you doing here?” parried Wilkinson.
“I’ve come—” Biggles paused— “I’ve come to do some shopping,” he said brightly.
“What a funny thing; so have I,” grinned Wilkinson. “And as I was here first I’m going to be served first. You’ve missed the boat, Biggles.”
“I’m dashed if I have,” cried Biggles hotly. “Our crowd discovered it—you pull your stick back, Wilks, and let the dog see the rabbit.”
“Not on your life,” retorted Wilkinson briskly. “First come, first served. You go and aviate your perishing Camel.” So saying he made a swift dash for the door of the estaminet; but he was not quite fast enough. Biggles tackled him low, brought him down with a crash, and together they rolled across the sun-baked earth.
Just how the matter would have ended it is impossible to say, but at that moment a touring car pulled up beside them with a grinding of brakes and Colonel Raymond of Wing Headquarters, eyed the two belligerent officers through a monocle with well-feigned astonishment.
“Gentlemen! Officers! No, I must be mistaken,” he said softly, but with a deadly sarcasm that brought a blush to the cheeks of both officers. “Are there no enemy aircraft left in the air that you must bicker among yourselves on the high road? Come, come. Can I be of any assistance?” He left his car, bade his chauffeur drive on, and came towards them. “Now,” he said sternly, “what is all this about?”
“That is the point, sir,” began Biggles. “Yesterday morning Batty—that is, Batson, of my Flight— was coming back this way by road from a forced landing, and dropped in here for—er—well, I suppose, for a drink. During a conversation with the proprietor he learned that M. Albert had, some years ago, laid in a stock of lemonade at the request of the staff of an Englishman who had taken the Chateau d’Abnay for the season. When this man returned to England, Albert had some of the stuff left on his hands, and, as the local bandits do not apparently drink lemonade, it is still here. To make a long story short, sir, Batty—that is, Batson—found no fewer than fourteen bottles reposing under the cobwebs in the cellar—and going for the prewar price of five francs fifty the bottle. Unfortunately Batty— I mean Batson—had only enough money on him to bring one bottle back to the Mess, so I slipped along this morning to get the rest. But it appears that Batty—that is, Batson—went to a guest night at 287 Squadron last night and babbled the good news—at least that is presumably what happened since I find Captain Wilkinson here this morning. I think you will agree, sir, that having been found by an officer of 266 Squadron the stuff should rightly belong to them,” concluded Biggles, eyeing the would-be sharer of the spoils in cold anger.
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“Well, well,” said the Colonel after a brief pause, “if that is the cause of the trouble I can settle the matter for you. The lemonade has gone.”
“Gone!” cried Biggles aghast. “All of it?”
“Yes, I fear so,” replied the Colonel sadly.
“Can you understand the mentality of a man who would take the lot and leave none for anyone else,” exclaimed Biggles bitterly. “Do you know who it was, sir?”
The Colonel paused for a moment before replying. “Well, as a matter of fact, it was me,” he admitted, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Biggles turned red and then white. Wilkinson started a guffaw, which he turned into a cough as the Colonel’s eye fell on him.
“You see,” went on the Colonel, “I, too, was a guest at 287 Squadron Mess last night, and fearing that the bottles might fall into unappreciative hands I collected it on my way home. I have just come to pay for it.”
Biggles breathed heavily, but said nothing. Colonel Raymond eyed him sympathetically, and then brightened as an idea struck him.
“Now, I’ll be fair about this; I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he began.
“I know! Toss for it, sir,” suggested Biggles eagerly, feeling in his pocket for a coin.
The Colonel shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve a better idea than that; do you fellows know the Duneville balloon?”
Biggles showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Do I? I should say I do When I’m tired of life I am going to fly within half a mile of that sausage. That’s all that will be necessary.”
