by W E Johns
“That little lot should teach you to stay put in future,” commented Biggles dryly, as he turned for home,
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1 Blaze. The line of burnt or flattened grass in front of the muzzle of a gun, caused by the flash. It showed up plainly in air photographs and betrayed many batteries.
2 Home Establishment.
THE ACE OF SPADES
CAPTAIN BIGGLESWORTH Of 266 Squadron, R.F.C., known to his friends as “Biggles”; homeward bound from a solitary patrol, glanced casually at the watch on his instrument-board. “Twelve-fifteen,” he mused. “Just time to look in and have a word with Wilks before lunch.” He altered his course a trifle, and a few minutes later set his Sopwith Camel down neatly on the aerodrome of No. 287 Squadron, where his friend, Captain Wilkinson—more often referred to simply as “Wilks”—commanded a Flight of S.E.5s.
“Is Wilks about?” he called to a group of pilots who were lounging about the entrance to a hangar, in which the dim outlines of some square-nosed S.E.5s could just be seen.
“Hullo, Biggles! Yes, I think he’s down in the Mess,” was the reply.
“Good enough; I’ll stroll down.”
“Do you want your tanks filling?”
“No, thanks, laddie; I’ve plenty to see me home.” Biggles tossed his cap and goggles into his cockpit and walked quickly towards the Mess, where he found Wilks, with two or three members of his Flight, indulging in a pre-luncheon aperitif.
“Ah—speak of the devil,” declared Wilks.
“Do you often talk about yourself?” inquired Biggles.
“Bah! When are your crowd going to knock a few Huns down?” grinned Wilks.
“Just as soon as the Boche opposite to us have fixed up what few fellows we’ve left alive with some new machines. Why?”
“We’ve got seven this week, so far.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” observed Biggles. “Well, you lot so seldom get a Hun that I suppose there is an excuse for you to get a bit chirpy. But you start riding too high on the cock-horse and you’ll stall and bruise yourselves. What about providing me with a little refreshment, somebody?”
“The fact is, our new S.E.5s are a bit better than your Camels,” explained Wilks apologetically, as he ordered Biggles’s drink.
“You think so, eh? Well, let me tell you something. I’d back a Bentley-engined Camel against a long-nosed S.E., as a Hun-getter, any day.”
“And let me tell you something,” declared Wilks, setting his glass down. “The worst S.E. in this Squadron could make rings round the best Camel you’ve got— ’cos why? Because we’ve got speed and height on you.”
Biggles’s eyes glittered. “Well, speed and height aren’t everything,” he said shortly. “My kite’ll turn twice before you’re halfway round the first turn. You think that over.”
“You’d have to prove that.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How?”
“Camera guns.”
“When?”
“Any time you like. Now seems to be the best time; there’s no need to wait, as far as I can see.”
“How would you arrange it?” inquired Wilks curiously.
“It doesn’t need any arranging. We take off with six films each and rendezvous over the aerodrome at ten thousand. No surprise tactics allowed. The show starts as soon as both pilots see each other, and ends as soon as the first man has got his six pictures. Then we’ll develop both films and tot up points for hits in the usual way.”
“I’ll take that on!” cried Wilks, starting up. “I’ll show you whether a perishing, oil-swilling Camel can hold a candle to an S.E.”
“Get ready, then. Your jaw will seize up one day, talking too much.”
There was a general babble of voices and a move towards the door as everyone hurried out on to the aerodrome to watch the match. “Get one of your fitters to fix me up a gun,” Biggles told Wilks.
“I’ll see to it.”
Ten minutes later the stage was set, and both pilots were ready to climb into their machines.
“Rendezvous over the aerodrome, you said?” queried Wilks.
“That’s right; take off how you like. I’ll approach from the north and you come in from the south. It doesn’t matter about the sun, as the shooting doesn’t start until we see each other.”
“Good enough.”
“Wait a minute, though!” cried Biggles, suddenly remembering something. “Have you got any ammunition in your Vickers?”
“No, they’re just being overhauled.”
“Hold you hard a minute, then,” retorted Biggles. “I’ve got a full belt in mine and they weigh something. I’ll have them taken out and then we’ll be square.”
It was the work of a moment for a fitter to remove the belt of ammunition, and both machines then took off amid the joyful applause of the assembled aerodrome staff, officers, and ack-emmas.
Biggles headed away to the north, climbing as steeply as possible in order to reach the arranged altitude without loss of time. At eight thousand feet he swung round in a wide circle and headed back towards the aerodrome, knowing that he would be able to make the other two thousand feet by the time he reached it. He peered ahead through his centre-section for the S.E., although he was still a long way away from the aerodrome, but Wilks had gone as far to the south as he had to the north, and they were still invisible to each other.
Biggles, was, of course, backing the manoeuvrability of the Camel against the slight pull in speed and ceiling held by the other. He hoped to beat Wilks on the turn, for the Camel’s famous right-hand turn, caused by the terrific torque of the rotary engine, was a very real advantage in a combat. That was really all he had in his favour, but it was chiefly upon that quality that he had developed his own technique in air-fighting, and he hoped to catch Wilks unprepared for the manoeuvre.
Again he peered ahead for his opponent, and pressed gently on the rudder-bar to swing his nose clear from the head-on position. The movement may have saved his life. There came the shrill clatter of a machine-gun at pointblank range; at the same moment a stream of tracer poured between his wings.
The shock was almost stunning in its intensity, so utterly unprepared was he for anything of the sort, and his actions for at least two seconds were purely automatic and instinctive. He kicked out his left foot hard, and dragged the joystick back into his right thigh.
The Camel bucked like a wild horse, and before it came out he had recovered his composure and was looking for his aggressor. He had done quite a lot of thinking in the brief interval of the half-roll. His first impression was that Wilks had attacked him, thinking he had been seen, and by some accident ammunition had been left in his guns. But he dismissed the thought at once and knew that he had fallen victim to a prowling Hun, operating for once in a while over the British side of the lines. That, he reasoned, could only mean that the Hun—if Hun it was— was an old hand at the game; a novice would hardly dare to take such a risk.
If it was so, then he was by no means out of the wood, for, unarmed, he could only make for the ground, an operation that would require a few minutes of time, a period of which the Hun, finding his fire was not returned, would certainly take full advantage.
Then he saw him, an orange-and-black Fokker D.VIII, with a large Ace of Spades painted on the side of its fuselage. Biggles brought the Camel round in a lightning turn that put him on the tail of the black-crossed machine for a few seconds. Automatically he sighted his guns and growled when his pressure on the Bowden lever produced no results. At that moment he thought he could have got his man, but there was no time for idle speculation. The Hun had reversed the position by a clever move, and a tattered skylight warned Biggles that he had better follow the old adage of running away if he wished to fight again another day.
He spun, counted six turns, and came out. Instantly the chatter of guns sounded so close that he winced. He held the Camel in a dizzy turn for a minute, with the Hun racing behi
nd him trying to bring his guns to hear, and then he spun again. All the time, at the back of his mind, was a fierce condemnation of his utter and inexcusable folly in flying without ammunition, and an equally fierce conviction that if he did succeed in reaching the ground alive he would never again be guilty of such madness. He spun for so long that he became giddy, and pulled out sluggishly. But the Hun was still with him, and he heard his bullets ripping through the spruce and canvas of his fuselage.
For the first time in his life be nearly panicked He twisted and turned like a minnow with a pike on its tail, losing height on every possible occasion, and finally sideslipping steeply into a field that appeared invitingly under him. He did not notice that a narrow ditch ran diagonally across the field, and it would have made no difference if he had. Fortunately, the Camel had nearly run to a stop when he reached it, so it suffered no serious damage. It lurched sickeningly, stopped dead, and cocked its tail up into the air. The prop disintegrated into flying splinters, mixed with clods of earth.
Biggles jerked forward and struck his nose on the padded ends of his guns with a force that made him “see stars”. He undid his safety-belt, and looked up just in time to see the Him waving him an ironic farewell. He watched it disappear into the distance, followed by a long trail of archie bursts, and then climbed out on to the ground to survey the damage. As he did so, he noticed for the first time that a road bounded the field, over the hedge of which a number of Tommies were grinning at him. He heard a car pull up with a grinding of brakes, but he paid no attention to it until a sharp commanding voice brought him round with a jerk. No fewer than three red-tabbed officers were corning towards him; the first, an elderly, hard-faced man, wore the badges of a General.
“My gosh Here’s a General come to sympathise with me. I couldn’t bear it,” muttered Biggles to himself, and he was framing a suitable reply when the General spoke. The voice was not sympathetic. In fact, there was something in the tone of voice that made him wince, and may have resulted in his subsequent attitude.
“How long have you been in France?” began the General, coldly.
“About eleven months, sir,” answered Biggles.
“That seems to have been quite long enough.”
Biggles stared, hardly able to believe his ears. Then, suddenly understanding the implication behind the General’s words, he froze, and clenched his teeth.
“I witnessed the whole affair—I’d hardly call it a combat —from start to finish,” went on the General contemptuously. “Not once did you make the slightest attempt to return the German’s fire. In fact, to put the matter still more clearly, you ran away. Am I right?”
“Quite right, sir,” answered Biggles frostily.
“I thought so. That orange-and-black Fokker has been causing a lot of trouble over our side of the lines lately, and you had an admirable opportunity to shoot him down, such an opportunity that may not occur again. It is a pity you did not take advantage of it, but it would seem that he was the better man.”
“It would seem so, sir.”
“It would be futile to deny it,” went on the General, icily. “What is your name?”
“Bigglesworth, sir.”
“Squadron?”
“Two-six-six, sir.”
“At Maranique, I believe.”
“That is so, sir.”
“Very well. Report back to your unit at once.”
“Very good, sir.”
The General turned on his heel, closely followed by his two aides. Biggles watched them go, sullen anger smouldering in his eyes. “Never been in the air in your lives, any of you, I’ll bet. You’d jump like cats if you heard a gun go off. Then, without asking why, you come and call me a coward,” he mused. “The fact is, I suppose that Hun has been shooting up your snug little headquarters, and you don’t like it. You wouldn’t. Well, I hope he blows your dug-out as high as the Eiffel Tower, and I hope you’re inside it when he does,” he concluded, as he made his way slowly down the road in search of a telephone, to ask for transport to fetch him, and the wrecked Camel, home.
II
Major Mullen’s opening remark when, an hour later, he reported at the Squadron Office, was an inopportune one, particularly with Biggles in his present mood. Far from pouring oil on troubled waters, it added fuel to a conflagration.
“You’ve let me down badly, Bigglesworth,” he began.
Biggles drew a deep breath, and stiffened. This sort of talk from the General had merely irritated him, but that his own C.O. should doubt him put him in a cold fury.
“You let a Hun run you into the ground without firing a shot at him.” The Major did not ask a question; he made a statement, and Biggles, who was about to explain the true facts of the case, shut up like an oyster. He made no reply.
“You’ve broken your machine, I hear,” went on the C.O..
“I have, sir.”
“Brigadier-General Sir Hales-Morier, of Air Headquarters, has just been on the phone to me. I will spare your feelings by not repeating what he said, but I gather he proposes to post you to Home Establishment; in the meantime, he wants a report tonight from me on the matter. It is to reach him by 6.30, so will you please make out your own report and let me have it by five o’clock.”
“I will, sir.”
“That’s all.”
Biggles did not go to the Mess. Instead, seething with anger, he made his way moodily to the sheds. He stood on the deserted tarmac for a few minutes and then sent an ack-emma down to the Mess with a message to Algy Lacey, of his own Flight, informing him that he was borrowing his machine and would be back some time. Then he took off and hedge-hopped—finding some satisfaction in the risks he took— to 287 Squadron, and told Wilks, whom he found at lunch, just what had occurred.
Wilks, who was about to pull Biggles’s leg in connection with his failure to turn up at the appointed place, whistled. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Do? Nothing—not a blessed thing.”
“You might have told your Old Man about only having celluloid in your guns.”
“I’m making no excuses to anybody; people can think what they like. Brass-hats should either ask why, or look at a fellow’s record before they jump down his throat, and mine isn’t too bad, although I say it myself.”
“They’ll think you’ve lost your nerve and send you home,” observed Wilks, soberly.
“Let ‘em. I’d as soon be busted by a hamfisted pupil at an F.T.S.1 as have my inside perforated by explosive bullets. We’ll be able to finish that little duel sometime when you come home on leave.”
“Don’t talk rot. You go and tell Mullen that you hadn’t any ammunition, or I will.”
“You mind your own blooming business, Wilks,” Biggles told him coldly, and refusing an invitation to stay to lunch returned to his Camel.
He swept into the air in a climbing turn, so steep that if his engine had conked the story of his war exploits would have ended there and then; he knew it perfectly well, and derived a bitter sort of satisfaction from the knowledge. But his engine continued to give full revs., and on a wide throttle he climbed in ever-increasing circles. He knew precisely where he was, for as one landmark disappeared from view he picked out another, although this procedure was purely automatic, and demanded no conscious thought. Yet where he was going he did not know; he was simply flying for the sake of flying. In his present frame of mind he had no desire to talk to anyone, least of all his own Squadron. So he continued to climb, thinking about the affair of the morning.
It was a burst of white archie about two hundred yards ahead that brought him out of his reverie. It was only a single burst, and as it was British archie it could only mean one thing—a signal. Mentally thanking the gunners for what should have been quite unnecessary, he scanned the sky around quickly for the hostile machine that he knew must be in the vicinity, and was just in time to see a vague shadow disappear into the eye of the sun. It had gone too quickly for him to recognise the type, but as
he could see no other machines in the sky, he assumed it was an enemy.
Now, a newcomer to the game would have turned at once, and thus made it clear to the stalker—if stalker it was—that he had been observed; but Biggles did nothing of the sort. He did certain things quickly, but he held straight on his course. The first thing he did was to pull up the handle of his C.C. gear and fire two or three shots to satisfy himself that the guns were working; then he twisted round in his seat as far as his thick flying-kit and the cramped space would permit, and squinted through his extended fingers in the direction of the sun. The glare was blinding, but by just keeping the ball of the thumb over the blazing disc and opening his fingers only wide enough to get a blurred view through the bristles of his gauntlet he was able to search the danger zone. He picked out a straight-winged machine, in silhouette, end-on, and knew that the enemy pilot was just launching his attack.
Not by a single movement of joystick or rudder did he reveal that he had spotted the attacker. He watched its approach. Only when the Hun, who now appeared as a thick black spot, was about three hundred yards away did he push his joystick forward for more speed; then, when he judged that the other was about to fire, he made a lightning Immelmann turn. He knew that at that moment the enemy pilot would be squinting through his sights, and the disappearance of the Camel from his limited field of view would not unduly alarm him.
In this he was apparently correct. The Boche, no doubt thinking he had a “sitter”, wasted three precious seconds looking for him in his sights, and it was the sharp stutter of Biggles’s guns that warned him of his peril and sent him half-volleying wildly.
Now it is a curious fact that, although Biggles had been thinking about his orange-and-black acquaintance of the morning when the archie gunners had fired their well-timed shot, all thought of him went out of his head when he realised that he was being stalked; so it was with something of a mild shock, swiftly followed by savage exultation, that he saw the well-remembered colours through his sights as he took the Hun broadside on and grabbed his Bowden lever.
