by W E Johns
The pilot of the black-crossed machine came out of his life-saving manoeuvre, looking around with a speed born of long experience. He saw the Camel anywhere but where he expected to find it, and in the last place he hoped to find it—on his tail. But he was, as Biggles had assumed, no novice at the game, and did not allow the British machine to retain the coveted position long enough to do him any harm. Biggles did actually get in a quick burst just as the other machine darted out of his sights, but it was ineffective, and the duel began in earnest, both pilots aware that it could only end in the downfall of one of them.
They were evenly matched, although Biggles, smarting from his reprimand of the morning— for which, rightly or wrongly, he blamed the pilot of the orange machine— fought with a ferocity that would not have been possible in a normal cold-blooded battle. He hit the other machine several times, but without causing it any apparent damage, and he took several shots through his own empennage in return.
The fight had opened over the British side of the lines, the Hun evidently repeating his tactics of the morning; but a fairly strong wind was carrying both machines towards the pock-marked barren strip of no-man’s-land. Naturally, this was not to Biggles’s liking, for unless the Hun made a bad mistake, which was hardly to be expected, he would soon be fighting with enemy territory below. So, gambling on the Hun repeating the tactics he had followed during the encounter of the morning, he deliberately spun. As he hoped, the other machine followed him. Twisting his head round, he could see the Hun spinning down behind him. He counted six turns, came out, and instantly spun the other way. This time, however, he allowed the machine to make only one turn. He pulled it out into a loop, half rolled on to even keel on top of the loop, and to his intense satisfaction saw the Hun go spinning past him. The short spin had caught him off his guard, and as he came out, Biggles thrust home his attack. He deliberately held his fire until it was impossible to miss, and then fired one of the longest bursts he had ever fired in his life.
The Hun jerked upwards, fell off on to his wing, and spun. Biggles was taking no chances. He followed him down without taking his eyes off him for an instant, in case it was a ruse. But it was no ruse. The orange Fokker went nose-first into the ground with its engine full on, and Biggles stiffened in his seat as he watched that fearful crash. He circled for a minute or two, looking for a suitable place to land. It was not his usual practice to look at unpleasant sights too closely, but on this occasion an idea had struck him, and he had a definite object in view.
With people hurrying towards the crash from all points of the compass he put the Camel down in an adjacent field and joined the hurrying crowd.
His great fear was that the wreck would be removed piecemeal by souvenir-hunters before he could reach it, but he found an officer on the spot when he got there, and the machine lay exactly as it had fallen.
III
It was five o’clock when he reported to the Squadron Office.
Major Mullen looked up from his desk as he entered. “Ah, you’ve brought your report,” he said.
“Er—yes, sir.”
“Good. First of all, though, you had better read what I have said. Here is the minute; I shall attach your report to it.”
Biggles took the buff sheet and felt his face go red with shame as he read a eulogy of his conduct and exploits since he had joined the Squadron. The C.O., he knew, must have gone to considerable trouble in the matter, for he had looked up a large number of combat reports—not all his own—and pinned them to the document. Further, he had evidently been in communication with Major Paynter, for a lengthy report from his old C.O. was also attached.
Biggles did not read it all through, but laid it on the C.O.’s desk. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid I don’t deserve such praise.”
“That is for me to decide,” replied the C.O.. Then, with a quick change of tone, he added, “What on earth possessed you to behave like that this morning, and before such an audience, too?”
A slow smile spread over Biggles’s face. “Well, the fact of the matter is, sir,” he said sheepishly, “I was in the air without any ammunition. It sounds silly, I know, but I had arranged to fight a camera-gun duel with Wilks—that is, Wilkinson, of 287, who claimed that his S.E. was better than my Camel.”
“Then why, in the name of heaven, didn’t you tell that interfering old fool—no, I don’t mean that—why didn’t you tell the General so?”
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. “I find it hard to argue with people who form their own opinions before they know the facts.”
“Like that, was it?”
“Just like that, sir!”
“I see. Well, let me have your report.”
“I’m afraid it’s rather a bulky one, sir,” replied Biggles, struggling with something under his tunic.
The C.O. stared in wide-eyed amazement. “What in the name of goodness have you got there?” he gasped.
Biggles slowly unfolded a large sheet of orange fabric on which was painted a Maltese Cross and beside it an Ace of Spades. He laid it on the C.O.’s desk. “That, sir, is the hide of the hound who made me bust my Camel this morning. I chanced to meet him again this afternoon, and on that occasion I had lead in my guns. I think H.Q. will recognise that Ace of Spades, and perhaps it will speak plainer than words. I’m not much of a hand with a pen, anyway.”
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1 Flying Training School.
